


In the Basement, In the Sky

by indecentpause



Category: Original Work
Genre: ADHD, Alcohol, Bisexual Character, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Emergency room, F/M, Happy For Now Ending, Homelessness, Hospital, Interracial Relationship, Japanese Character, M/M, Mental Illness, Nonbinary Character, Other, Romance, Suicide Attempt, contemporary, hfn, mention of car crash, mention of past character death, mention of transphobia, mixed race character, overall gender positive, self medication, thai character, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-01-31 17:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 76,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18596527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecentpause/pseuds/indecentpause
Summary: Jen is trying his best, okay? His best is just... never good enough. His boyfriend thinks he's cheating, his ex-girlfriend wants him back more than anything, and they're all terrible at laying down boundaries, so all that results in is a world of heartache and hurt for everyone. He suffers from depression and ADHD that he medicates with street drugs, which only makes everything worse, and with every step up the ladder he has to climb to get to the top, he slides back ten more rungs.But at least once you hit rock bottom you don't have anywhere to go but up.A Sheraton Academy AU.





	1. Chapter 1

So, Jen, or Atreyu, or whatever name you’re going by today. Here you are on the kitchen floor again, face pressed to the cold tile and hair falling every which way. You’re in your boxers and the rest of your clothes are in the kitchen sink (because that was important for some reason) and the tile is cold and oh, wait, you said that already, didn’t you? Or you thought it, or whatever. But it _is_ cold, and it’s so nice against your flushed, hot skin, and holy shit you know what would be even better? A cold _bath_!

But the bath is too far, and you know yourself, and you’d just end up on the bathroom floor instead, and the faucet leaks, and the dripping would drive you crazy, and your neck tightens and your spine twitches just thinking about it --

But the floor out here is cold, even if it’s not as nice as your bed, because Kylie locked you out of the bedroom again.

His loss. He’s the one missing out on the kitchen floor.

Almost three hours later (and you know, because the molly is wearing off and things aren’t quite as shiny and bright any more), the lock on the bedroom door clicks. You try to lift your head to look, but you’re so tired, and everything is heavy like sand, like each molecule itself is nothing but you put them all together and they’re impossible to move on your own. The door creaks open and soft footsteps make their way across the creaky, carpeted floor over to you, and a brightness spills from your chest out into your limbs and head because Kylie _came_ for you, he’s worried, he _cares_ \--

But no. He just nudges your leg aside with his foot and walks around your back, opens the fridge and pours some water. He doesn’t say a word.

“Kylie?” you finally manage. Silence. Maybe his cochlear implants aren’t in?

With all the energy you have, you roll over onto your back and tug at his pajama pants to get his attention. They feel like denim. Weird. Why would he go to sleep in jeans? He doesn’t look down at you.

“My ears are not in. I am going to work,” he says, with that familiar slur he gets when he can’t hear.

Work? What time --?

He makes his way past you again and opens the blinds on the window opposite. The sunlight burns you, so bright, too bright, the molly hasn’t quite worn off so it’s still brighter than it should be and --

Kylie makes his way back to the bedroom, uncovering every window as he goes. It hurts so bad, why is he doing this to you?

Suddenly the jangling of keys comes from the front door, and Kylie says, “Jen, do not forget you have work later tonight.” He’s not slurring as much. His ears must be in. “I will remind you again in a text two hours before you have to be there. Please go in. We are behind on almost all our bills.”

And even though he can hear you when you say, “I love you, Kylie,” he closes and locks the door behind him without response.

Even if you were to turn your head, you wouldn’t be able to see the door from here. But Kylie’s right, you do have to work tonight, and damn, that means you have to save the acid laced Sweet Tarts until tomorrow.

Or, you know. You could eat some now. Would make work a lot more interesting.

Now that you have something to look forward to, you somehow manage to push the sad sack of bones that is yourself off the floor. You gather your clothes from the sink and rub your shirt against your face. It smells like sweat and deodorant, but it’s soft, and with the oncoming headache, that’s what you need right now. Last thing you need is to drop acid with a migraine and have a bad trip.

What you need right now is a shower, but what you want is to lie down and smoke a blunt, so what you do is give yourself a sink bath instead. You stumble into the bedroom, suddenly heavy and exhausted, and you dig your keys out of your pocket -- which is a lot harder when your jeans are a crumpled up mess on the floor -- and unlock your little personal drawer. Kylie has one, too, in the bedside table on his side of the bed. His has, like, pictures of his estranged family and his pain meds. You’ve never stolen from someone you know, whether it be drugs or money for drugs, but you can understand why he’s be worried. Fuck’s sake, you’re an addict, and you steal from work all the time. So, you know. Fair.

Your side has your weed stash.

Aside from that and your acid laced Sweet Tarts -- because really, who would guess? -- you buy drugs as you need them. Your dealer’s cool with it, even though she probably hikes her rates because she can’t unload her shit on you. But you trust her to have a good product that’s pure and safe, and that’s what matters.

You light a stick of incense on either side of the bed and open the window so the room doesn’t smell too bad when Kylie gets home. Just as you’re about to light your bowl, your phone rings. A heavy sigh of annoyance huffs past your mouth and you answer.

“’Lo?”

“Hello, may I please speak with either Kylie Nudo or Atreyu… Hoshigawa?”

She butchers your name, like they all do. It’s a fucking phonetic spelling! Why is that so hard?

“Atreyu Hoshigawa speaking.”

She pauses, like she’s not sure that’s a real name. Typing on her side. She must confirm it, because she goes on to ask for you to confirm your address. She must be with the electric or something.

She starts to explain why she’s called and yep, you called it. Gas company. If they’re calling you it must be important, but you can’t help but zone out and stare at the wall, at the old poster of the band Kylie was in in college, before you fucked up three years sober and everything went downhill again.

You light the bowl and inhale, hold, exhale. Just one hit so you can make it through this boring conversation.

She ends her spiel as you finish exhaling.

Your gas is getting cut off if you can’t pay now.

You can’t pay now.

So that sucks.

“I get paid on Friday?” you offer. “Can I pay it then? Right now I don’t have enough.”

“You’re over $300 overdue,” the woman says.

“Wait, _what_?”

“You haven’t paid your bill in months, sir.”

“Can I set up a payment plan, or --?”

“How much can you pay now?”

“Uh.” You put your piece down on the bedside table and roll onto your stomach so you can fish your laptop out from under the bed. “Let me check my bank account. Can you give me a minute to open everything up?”

“Of course.”

You have $7.82. Shit. They’re not going to accept that.

You try anyway.

“Can I pay five dollars?” you ask. You try to be confident, even though she’s going to laugh you off the phone.

“Five dollars,” she repeats.

“I’m so sorry, but it’s all I have.”

“I’m sorry, but that… that’s unacceptable. We’ll send you instructions in the mail about how to get your gas service turned back on and what number to call when you’re ready.”

“But --“

“I’m sorry, sir.”

She hangs up.

You put down your phone and run to the shower while there’s still a chance at hot water.

 

Even a whole bowl of the good weed later, you can’t sleep. You just stare through a haze of incense smoke at the ceiling. You burn it even on days you don’t smoke, so it doesn’t seem abnormal, but you’re pretty sure Kylie knows exactly what you’re doing, anyway. He’s not stupid, and you’re not the first addict to run him round the block. He probably just doesn’t care because weed’s not addictive, and he knows you can’t sleep without some help.

And without insurance, weed’s a hell of a lot cheaper than seeing a doctor and getting sleeping pills.

It’s a weird space to be in. You’re relaxed, you’re exhausted, you’re hyper-focused on making out all the patterns in the ceiling paint. Over two hundred so far, with plenty more to count.

Maybe no Sweet Tarts today. Sleep deprivation and acid do not mix.

It takes another bowl and hours of low-fi ambient music, but you finally drift off to sleep.

True to his word, Kylie texts you two hours before you have to leave. You’re just part time and don’t start until 11:00 but poor Kylie has been working a lot of doubles to pick up your slack. It’s not that you haven’t been trying! Everyone’s just already hired for the holidays and there’s nothing left. You can’t even Uber or Lyft because you let your license expire after the accident two years back. Being the driver responsible for other people’s lives reminds you too much of Smartypants and Mouse, even though you weren’t the one driving back then.

The comforter keeps you mostly safe from your memories, which the bus definitely won’t, and you don’t want to move because you know it’s going to be cold out there. But you do, because Kylie works so hard and you have to try to do the same.

 

You’d rather be sleeping than working, but the Adderall helps, and you’re stronger than you look, so James the Night Shift Manager puts you in the basement to organize inventory for the workers in the morning.

It’s your favorite spot, because there are no cameras.

You never understood why. They’re perfect theft conditions. Maybe because they check your bags when you leave, they think you won’t try it?

Whatever. Their loss is your gain!

You spend the night moving and unpacking boxes and hanging inventory and pocketing jewelry and occasionally taking off your shirt so you can put on another one underneath. The fact that you’re expected to wear a red button down even while you’re in the basement is pretty stupid, but that also works to your advantage, because the t-shirts they sell for $25 a pop are thin and shitty and you can layer five of them before you start to look weird.

Shift’s over at five am, and James checks your backpack on the way out. It’s mostly a decoy so they can see what a great employee you are, meeting the bare minimum. James walks all the night employees to the door and when you get there, you drop your backpack at your feet and pull on your jacket. You pull the fork out of your hair -- if white people get to wear your culture’s eating utensils as hair accessories, you get to use theirs, that’s the rules -- and drop it in your jacket pocket.

“Everyone got all your stuff?” James asks, in a way that says he really doesn’t give a shit and you all could come back later if you didn’t.

“Yeah,” a chorus of tired voices replies.

 

Including the wait, the bus ride takes about an hour. You get home a little after six am to see Kylie in the kitchen, and he’s making coffee by the smell of it. He doesn’t turn around when you call his name. His ears probably aren’t in yet. You can’t tell from here, because the implants are the same shiny black as his shaggy hair, and his hair sometimes hides parts of them. But just in case, you don’t sneak up behind him, you circle round and approach him from the side and lay a hand on his arm. He looks up and smiles at you. You smile back and open your arms and hike your brow up. _Hug?_

Kylie weasels in and hugs you tight, burying his nose in your work shirt. A pause. He pulls away, frowning. You move your hands away from his back and sign, “What’s wrong?”

Kylie pokes your stomach, your chest. “Either you’ve been smuggling or you’ve gained a lot of weight since last night,” he signs. You grin and strip your shirt off, then pull the t-shirts off one by one and lay them on the counter.

“Shirts!” you finally sign, when the last one is off. It almost doesn’t occur to you that you’re standing half naked until the cold hits you.

“How much did these cost?” he signs, at the same time you sign,

“The gas got cut off.”

Kylie smiles at you like you’re a particularly loveable but stupid pet. Maybe you kind of are. “I know,” he signs. He sighs from his stomach and runs a hand through his hair. “I figured it out when the water wouldn’t warm up last night.”

“I’m sorry. I tried! But until I get paid I only have, like, $7.00, and they wouldn’t accept that.”

“And I have even less, without taking out of the rent money. I thought it was illegal to shut off heat in November?”

“Mid-November,” you sign. “They were probably going through delinquent accounts and slashing what they could while it was still legal.”

Kylie blows a frustrated raspberry and leans his hip against the counter. He picks up one of the shirts.

“How much?” he signs with one hand.

“Free!” You grin and your shoulders perk up. “They were just going to throw them out, so I doubled back to the dumpster and grabbed them.”

It doesn’t even feel like lying anymore. It’s like telling stories. Who cares if it’s true or not, as long as it’s interesting?

You pick up the pile and shove them into Kylie’s arms. “Look through them and see if you like any!” Your hands move every which way, an excited blur.

Kylie laughs and nods, and gestures you into the bedroom with a tilt of his head. He pulls his key out of his pocket and you’re very careful to turn away, because those are his private things and you don’t want to invade his space. A click slide clunk slide click, and you turn back around to see him putting on his ears. He adjusts his hair a little and turns back to you. “This will be easier,” he says. The t-shirts are in a pile on the bed. Kylie looks down at them. “We will do this later. For now, I have the day off, so I want to have a coffee with you, even if you do not have coffee so you can sleep. We also have a little bit of strawberry-cranberry juice left.”

You opt for the juice, because it’s your favorite kind and you can never find it and you want to drink it before it goes bad.

For a few minutes, you stand across from each other, sipping at your drinks and not saying anything.

“How was work?” Kylie finally asks.

You shrug. “Getting the shirts was cool. Other than that, you know, just work. At least it wasn’t a bad day and I didn’t have to deal with customers.” You take a sip of your juice and grin at him after you swallow. “I’ve heard murmurings I’m not supposed to. James the Night Shift Manager was talking to the assistant manager in before him and told her he wants them to hire me on after the holidays.”

Kylie perks up and his eyes go wide. “Really? Oh, Jen, that is wonderful!” He puts down his coffee mug and takes your cup out of your hands and puts it on the counter beside you, then throws himself at you in a hug. He hugs you so tight, his nose against the top of your head and his hands buried in your hair, and the pure joy in your chest bubbles up as a bright laugh.

You need to do more things to deserve hugs like this. Maybe you can find something on Craigslist to do for a day to bring in some grocery money.

“I love you, too, Jen,” Kylie mumbles. “I am sorry I did not say it back last night. I was angry but that is not a reason to not say I love you.”

You squeeze him tight and he squeezes back. His short nails on your bare back make you shiver. And then, simultaneously, you both let go, and he bumps his nose against yours, a silent question.

A smile curls across your lips and you kiss him in answer.

Kylie curls his fingers in your hair and gently pulls it in front of your shoulders, then runs his hands over it down your chest.

“It is getting really long,” he says when he pulls away.

You slowly reach over his shoulder to tangle your fingers in his hair. He still flinches a little when you pass by his ears, even to this day.

Fuck that bully who screamed in his implants when he was in high school.

“It’s okay,” you say gently.

He gives you a weak smile.

“Do you want me to stop?”

He nods.

You pull your hand away to his shoulder, down his arm, far enough away from his ears that there’s no risk of accidently touching them.

A pause.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“What?”

You look up into Kylie’s eyes and repeat yourself. He shakes his head.

“It is okay. I know you are only trying to help --”

“No, I mean. About falling asleep on the floor the other night. How did you know I’d come home high?”

Kylie’s frown is so deep his whole forehead furrows. His eyes dart over your face and he sighs a deep, aching, tired sigh.

“You accidentally texted me instead of your dealer. And if you do not think I know asking her to tell Molly to bring your cereal means you want MDMA and ketamine, you think lower of me than I ever thought you could.”

Oh, god, no wonder you had to text Ashley again.

You grab his hands and shake your head. It messes up the hair Kylie so carefully put over your shoulders, but it doesn’t matter.

“I don’t… I know you know what it means. I don’t think you’re stupid. I just… I know you don’t like to hear about it. It really was an accident. You know I’d never text you about that stuff unless I’d overdosed or something, right?”

Kylie pulls you into another hug, this one fiercer than the last.

“Do not say that,” he says. “Do not even joke about it. You almost died last time.”

“I did die, technically,” you say. Your voice is light and airy, like you’re telling a funny story. “For almost two minutes.”

Kylie’s arms tighten even more. “Shut up,” he says gently. “Please… please do not talk about it so lightly. I do not know what I would do if I lost you like that.”

You finally squeeze back and bury your nose in his shoulder. “Sorry.”

This time, when you pull away from each other, Kylie takes your hand and leads you back to bed. He gently pushes you down on the mattress, and that’s when you realize how tired you are. The Adderall has long worn off, and your mind is slowly turning into cotton and fluff, and you’re getting into that headspace where you can’t do much but count all the little strings in the carpet and all the patterns on the wall.

“You worked late,” Kylie says gently. “I will go get our drinks and you can rest.”

You smile and catch his hand, pressing a kiss to each of his fingers.

“Thank you.”

He leaves the room and you crawl over the shirts to your side of the bed, curl up under the blankets, and try to think of warm things.


	2. Chapter 2

Funshine and Smartypants are in the parking lot at 10:00 pm sharp. Kylie’s still at work -- evening shift, tonight -- so he doesn’t hear your phone ring, and for some reason, you’re grateful for that. This time when you text Ashley to double check your meeting place. The first checkpoint.

She texts back right away: _Yep. Got everything you asked for. You got the money?_

You bite your lip. You _don’t_ got the money. You have seven dollars. Phone still in hand, you pull your jacket on, huge pockets stuffed full of water bottles they won’t let you bring in. You’ve already eaten your Sweet Tart blotter and you’ve saved the second in the pack for Funshine.

Smartypants doesn’t do acid anymore. Not since Mouse.

You text Funshine as you bound down the stairs. _Can I borrow some cash tonight?_

_What’s up?_

_I owe Molly._

_Oh, ya, of course! I just have to stop by an atm._

And by that time you’re in her car, in the backseat, unloading water bottles into the seat beside you.

Once you’ve settled in, you text Ashley back. _Sry for the delay. I’ve got it. Text you when I’m close?_

_Sounds good. :)_

_You gonna be at the party tonight?_

_Nah. I have a project for school. But next time, definitely. See you at the first point._

“Jen!” Funshine whines, flailing her hand back near your face. “Close the door! It’s fucking cold out there!”

“Sorry!” You laugh and pull your legs in, then close the door behind you. Funshine stops batting around but still reaches around to find your face, and you catch her wrist and press a kiss to her palm. Then you reach for Smartypants’s hand, and carefully bend it at the elbow to bring it closer so you can kiss his knuckles.

Friends do that, right? That’s normal!

“Who’s ready to go dance it the fuck up?” Funshine screams.

“Hell yeah!” You and Smartypants throw your hands up as high as two adults can in such a small car, and Smartypants still knocks his hand against the roof anyway. He flinches and drops his hands, gently rubbing at his bad shoulder.

He opens the glove compartment, digs around, pulls out a prescription bottle and pops a couple pills. Offers to Funshine, but she shakes her head and says, “I’m not taking your pain meds, Smarty.”

He glances over at her and stows the bottle away again.

“Let’s do this shit!” Funshine turns up the radio -- it’s Mindless Self Indulgence -- and you all whoop and start to sing along.

Funshine only turns the music down when she parks at the bank to go into the atm. Smartypants is unusually quiet. He’s not telling you about an awesome new book or comic he’s found, or a weird old audio cassette he got at a thrift store, or even singing under his breath along to the now quiet music.

“Smarty?” you ask. “You okay?”

“I just need to talk to you both about something when Funshine gets back.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt so you can lean between the two front seats and look at his profile, trying to read it for a clue, but you’ve never been good at reading people, have you? So you take his hand and he wraps his fingers tight around yours and presses your knuckles to his cheek. That’s when you feel the stubble you’ve never seen because he keeps it shaved so close.

You squeeze his hand.

“You’re looking good,” you say. “Is the T working out for you? Do you like it? I can hear your voice cracking a little. That’s good, right?”

“I think so,” Smartypants says, soft and faraway, like he’s not quite there. “I think this is what I want, anyway. I’m just afraid I’ll get too masculine, you know?”

“I wish I could say I did.” You press your knuckles a little closer to his cheek. “Are you going to take, like, half doses or something? Or are you going full speed ahead like Funshine with the estrogen?”

“Lower doses,” Smartypants says. “My doctor says it should help with looking and sounding more androgynous.”

But he’s staring out the window as he speaks to you, eyes a little vacant. You follow his gaze. He’s staring at the back of Funshine’s head while she struggles with the atm and he absently continues to rub his shoulder. Your acid candy hasn’t kicked in yet, but maybe hers kicked in faster? Did she even take it yet? Not while she’s driving, right? You all learned your lesson when --

When he looks back at you, it’s with a lopsided grin.

“No more periods, at least.”

“Hell yeah!” You’ve never had one, thank god, but from everything you know it sounds _horrible_.

“Right?” he laughs. You both jump when someone knocks on his window but when you turn, it’s just Funshine making faces at you. You stick your tongue out and cross your eyes.

Funshine jumps back in the car again and lets out a huff and a full-body shiver, like a cat.

“Jay-sus it’s cold out there!” she squeaks.

“Here.” You drop your jacket over her head and she slips it on over her My Little Pony t-shirt and her armfuls of kandy, sighing contentedly.

“Mm. Thanks, Jen-jen. I’ll give it back when you need it again.” She moves to take the car out of park, but Smartypants stills her hand. He weaves his fingers with hers and says,

“So, I don’t want to harsh the vibe or anything, but… it’s coming up.”

Everyone goes silent. Funshine even turns off the music completely.

“Yeah,” she whispers. You can’t find words. You just nod.

“How’s everyone doing?” Smartypants asks gently.

“We should be asking you that.” Funshine kisses his wrist. “You came out worse than any of us.”

“Not Mouse.” Smartypants chokes on his words, and a shiver runs down your spine and swirls in your stomach. It heaves, once, and you breathe deep through your nose so you won’t vomit.

“I know,” Funshine says gently. “But even though we all still miss him, I don’t think he’d want us to be sad, you know?” She chuckles, wet and heavy. “Even though we can’t help it. I loved my little Mouse.”

In the backseat, alone, your hands start trembling. You bite your lip. Your heart starts going at a thousand beats a minute, and a bright red burning in your face joins the cold in your stomach. Funshine and Smartypants are still talking about your dead best friend, but their speech is foggy and confusing and not-quite-words.

Somewhere in the back of your head you knew the second anniversary of the accident was coming up. Maybe that’s why you’ve been getting high so much more often. But it wasn’t a concrete thing until Smartypants had to open his stupid mouth about it --

Your head suddenly goes a little light and a tremble hits the back of your neck and something starts scratching at the window. Funshine and Smartypants jerk back to look at you when you shriek. You unbuckle your seatbelt and get tangled up as you try to pull away from that horrifying sound and whatever’s making it, but you can’t, you’re stuck, you’re stuck here forever and --

“Jen-jen!” Funshine shouts sternly. You jump. She’s in her seat on her knees and reaches around to cup your face. You screw your eyes closed but she gently shakes your head and says, “No, look at me.”

“Did he take something?” Smartypants asks.

“A candy blotter.”

“Fuck.” A pause. “Did you?”

“No. He gave me one but I’m waiting until just before we get there.”

A sharp, pained whine tumbles from your mouth and you try to pull away again, but Funshine has a firm hold on you. Her head jerks back in your direction.

“Jen,” she coos, softly, gently. She runs her fingers through your hair and gently rubs at your cheeks with her thumbs. “Look at me,” she says.

You open your eyes. Her brown eyes are soft and serious, but not mad. She blows a strand of bright yellow hair out of her face. It’s such a pretty sunshiney color, and it looks so soft, and you want to touch it, but you don’t want to give her the wrong idea or do something that would hurt Kylie.

“You’re okay, Jen,” Funshine whispers. “You’re okay. There’s nothing bad here that will hurt you. It’s all gone away. It’s just you and me and Smarty in my shitty car with the heater on. Do you want some music?”

Your eyes go toward the window but Funshine’s fingers in your hair distract you and you look back at her again.

“Funshine?” you whisper in a tiny voice.

She smiles at you and nods. “That’s me,” she whispers. She turns toward Smartypants and says, “Could you see if we have any chill-out music? I think it would help.”

“Of course.” Smartypants flips down the vanity mirror and starts going through the CDs. “We have, uh, Trocadero, Sufjan Stevens, and that mix CD we got at that one party last summer? Chill-In or whatever?”

“The mix,” Funshine says. Her hand is still on your face, warm and soft, and she reminds you to breathe, so you do, and then the scary whatever it was outside is gone.

Acid. You ate a candy blotter. The thing outside wasn’t real.

Okay. You’re okay now.

You say it aloud when Funshine doesn’t respond. Her shoulders relax and she smiles softly at you.

“Okay,” she says. “We’re just going to have a nice, happy, quiet ride to meet Ashley -- oop! I’ll give you the money now --“ she pulls two twenties from her pocket and puts them in your hand -- “and you’re going to buy the molly, and then we’re going to figure out where to go, and we’re going to go to a kickass warehouse party, and have a great night together, okay?”

You nod. Some of the tension falls off your shoulders at her taking control so you don’t have to think.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Okay.”

Smartypants can’t turn so well to look at you, but you clap a hand on his shoulder and he takes it and gives it a squeeze.

“I know things are rough for all of us right now,” he says gently, “so maybe, after tonight, no acid until we’re feeling better, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pats your hand, squeezes it one more time, lets go. Funshine lets go of your face. Another car pulls into the lot.

“We’d better go,” she says. She rights herself in the drivers’ seat. “Last thing we need right now is a cop.”

Smartypants switches the CDs out and turns the volume up just enough to barely hear. Nobody says anything, and you spend the ride looking out the window at all the lights, the headlights and taillights of the other cars, the streetlights, the stoplights. They slowly stretch and spin around each other, like they’re dancing. A particularly bright stoplight melts through the roof of the car, green and red and yellow, and it drips down over you like paint, like liquid sugar, like your favorite strawberry syrup they only have at that one coffee shop by your apartment. It’s warm and thick and sweet, like caramel. You run your fingers through your hair and they come out sticky, and when you move them back in front of your face, the sugar light pulls and drips like spider webs. You lick the tip of your finger. Bitter, sweaty, a hair in there somewhere. Your nose wrinkles and you stick out your tongue and shake your head. Nope, you do _not_ like that at all. This sugar light isn’t for eating.

Then Funshine’s voice comes lilting from the front seat, into the back like little pink and yellow clouds, one at a time, _puff_ , _puff_ , _puff_. You look up.

“Jen-jen?” she says gently. You can see the back of her ear, her long, beautiful sunshiney-yellow hair, the puffy neckline of the jacket you loaned her. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, silvery-green, like lavender leaves.

“Okay. We’re about ten minutes away. Can you text Ashley?”

“Oh!” You fumble your phone out of your pocket. “Yeah.”

And you do.

_Ten minutes out. It’s cold as fuck so bring a jacket._

_Thanks. :)_

Funshine takes one hand off the wheel and takes Smartypants’s hand. He kisses her knuckles, her wrist. Her nails are painted to match the rest of her yellow makeup.

And you look at Smartypants, really look at him for the first time all night. His shoulders are slumped, like he’s just gotten terrible news, and his neck is tight, and in the reflection of the vanity mirror you can see how glossy his eyes are.

You miss Mouse, too. He was your best friend. But you weren’t the one driving while you were fucked up on acid and god knows what else. You don’t remember. Everything about that night but the impact is a blur.

With a heavy sigh you scrub at your face with the soft, satiny light. It’s warm and wonderful and it helps so much.

Funshine turns into a back alley behind an apartment building. Does Ashley actually live here? You don’t know. Ashley might not even be her real name.

Funshine puts the car in park but leaves it running, and you both unbuckle your seatbelts, so she can give your jacket back.

“Be safe, Jen,” Smartypants says. The first words since your freakout. “Promise me, okay?” His words are tight-knotted cords, dark blue and black, like Mouse’s favorite colors were. You smile and pat his shoulder.

“I’ll be fine!” you laugh, a thin cloud of lime green smoke, curling up at the ends. “I’ve been out while higher and on worse.”

You leave the car before he can worry any more and walk in carefully measured paces until you reach the corner of the alley in front of the car. Ashley’s there, in a wool peacoat that goes down to her knees, smoking a cigarette, one foot kicked up against the wall as she leans back. More like a model than a drug dealer. You raise a hand in greeting and she nods back.

It’s a ritual, now. When you approach, you each take the other’s right hand and exchange the money for the pills, pull each other in for a hug just a second too short to be friendly, and slide your hands back in your pockets. Only someone really looking would notice it wasn’t just a hug.

“Easy peasy Japanesey,” she says. She pinches your cheek and pats it a little too roughly. “Don’t text tomorrow or Friday. All day or night. Wait until the weekend.”

“Sure,” you say.

“You want the old empty warehouse on Irving a few blocks from O’Hare.”

You frown. “Is that really safe?”

She shrugs. “I’m not going, not my problem.”

She doesn’t stay to make small talk.

You wave halfheartedly at her back and mumble a soft, “Later.”

The way she belittles you because of your race makes your skin crawl and your stomach churn, but she’s got the cleanest drugs in the city. Her attitude with the potential for a bad trip, though? It’s an absolutely terrifying combination. So when you enter the car and Funshine holds out her hand for the jacket, you take it and squeeze for a moment, instead.

“Jen?”

“Jen, are you all right?” Smartypants asks.

You smile at them and close the door, pulling the pills out of your pocket and handing the jacket over to Funshine.

“Give me about forty-five minutes and I’ll be fine as hell.”

“You’re already fine as hell!” Funshine giggles as she pulls on the jacket.

You snort a laugh and Smartypants shrugs. “I mean, she’s not wrong!” he adds, and he’s smiling now, too, and finally everything is good again.

“We’re going out to that empty warehouse by O’Hare, on Irving Park.”

“Okay!” Funshine shouts gleefully. And then, “Who wants to listen to some motherfucking Toy-Box?”

Smartypants switches out the chill out mix for their CD. All of you bounce in your seats as Funshine drives, laughing and pumping your arms and singing, and everything is so, so beautiful, Ashley and her comments long forgotten. The bats at the window never existed, you’ve never had a fight with Kylie, Funshine and Smartypants are happy and fulfilled without you in their relationship, and the world is perfect.

PLUR. That’s what this moment embodies. Peace, love, unity, and respect.

You arrive long after the first set has started, and as you circle around to find parking, Smartypants squints out the window at the man by the main entrance.

“They’ve got a drug checker,” he says as Funshine pulls into the empty lot behind the warehouse, trying to find the closest spot to the front.

“God dammit, it’s all gravel,” she snaps, the first you’ve seen her angry in _ages_.

“You could throw me over your shoulder and make Jen carry my chair.” Smartypants uses an almost joking tone, but there’s a slight edge to his voice that belies his frustration. You hand him a water bottle and a bright green pill and say, “Here, here, this will make you feel better. If there’s a drug checker we have to take it all before we go in, anyway.”

He pats your wrist and says fondly, “That’s our Jen-jen, always trying to make other people happy.”

You beam at the praise. It feels almost as good as when Kylie hugged you when you said you might make it past the holidays at your job.

“You know what,” Funshine says, jerking the steering wheel into a sudden turn, “I’m just gonna drop you two off at the corner where the sidewalk is and I’ll meet you, then we’ll all go in together.”

Smartypants sighs in relief and you gently pat the top of his head. He chuckles and pats the back of your hand in return.

“Wait, wait, first,” you say, pulling the pill baggie out of your pocket. You hand Funshine one of the pills and you take the last one, swallowing it down with a huge mouthful of water. The bitterness still cuts your tongue, but that’s a good sign. That means it’s real.

Not that you’d expect less from Ashley. She knows her shit, even if she is a racist jerk.

Funshine hits the brake and takes her own pill, and Smartypants takes his, and Funshine takes the remaining candy blotter out of your jacket pocket and chomps down on it.

When you get to the sidewalk, she puts the car in park and hops out with you, going round the car and opening the hatchback to pull Smartypants’s wheelchair out. It’s a big, hulking thing, but at least it can kind of fold up. The muscles of her arms shine, just barely touched by a faraway street lamp, and for that moment and for always you are so, so grateful Smartypants has such a strong girlfriend.

Funshine plops the wheelchair down on the sidewalk and says, “Hold it here so it doesn’t roll funny.”

So you put the brakes in place and hold the handles. Funshine lifts Smartypants out of the car even easier than she did the wheelchair, and she carries him the few feet and carefully settles him in. She leans down and presses a kiss to his mouth, then his nose, then his forehead, and says, “I’ll park the car and be right back.”

“Love you, my sunshine,” Smartypants says.

“Love you, too, best beloved,” Funshine smiles. She wraps him up in a hug and kisses the top of his head, then jumps back in the car and drives off to find a parking space.

It’s dim, where you are, so you fish your phone out of your pocket and turn on the flashlight so you can at least see if someone’s about to sneak up on you. Though who would? Everyone’s inside partying, and you’ll be joining them soon.

The winter air pricks cold on your skin. Even Smartypants, who usually runs so hot anyone else would call it a fever, is rubbing at his upper arms. You rub your hands together as fast as you can for a few moments, then rest your newly warmed palms on his shoulder, so it doesn’t get too cold and lock up. The kandy from your wrists to your elbows does nothing to ward off the cold, and by the time Funshine comes back, you’re both shivering like frightened kittens.

Funshine rubs her hands over Smartypants’s upper legs a few times to make sure they’re warm enough, then says, “Okay, let’s go.”

The drug checker at the entrance searches you a little _too_ well, and even dips his fingers down past your waistline against your stomach a bit, but you let him. As long as he’s not harassing Funshine or Smartypants, you don’t care. After what seems like ages, you finally get past the discomfort and the door and are immediately smashed by the music.

UK hardcore. Mouse’s favorite. It _would_ be playing tonight.

The three of you look at each other, and then Smartypants clears his throat. “Let’s go over to the side. I don’t want to run anyone over until they deserve it.”

You and Funshine each crack a small grin and you go in front to clear a path while she stays back to make sure he doesn’t get held up.

The crowd thins out the closer you get to the wall, but that doesn’t stop kandy kids and partiers coming out of nowhere to hug you and ask to trade kandy. Funshine stops anyone hugging Smartypants, but nobody gives him shit. Everyone just wants to look at his purple glo-sticks and ask if they can trade for one of his glow in the dark bracelets.

How long has this song been going? Ten minutes? Thirty?

You’re not sure, but when the molly hits you, it hits hard, and the shifting lights and colors from the blotter meet the pure, all-consuming joy of the MDMA, and Funshine’s and Smartypants’s hands in yours are just _everything_ , everything good in the world, and the only thing that could make it better is if Kylie were here, too.

Smartypants pulls his hands away and starts twirling his glo-sticks between his fingers. Funshine doesn’t miss a beat and grabs your hands, jumping up and down with you as you both laugh like idiots.

The hot, downtrodden warehouse, muggy with the sweat of hundreds of dancers, suddenly brightens, and the lights far, far to the back of the set stretch and widen into a pulsating rainbow. Smartypants’s glo-sticks leave beautiful trails of light as they move in patterns you couldn’t hope to comprehend. He’s always been really good at that.

Without skipping a beat, she nudges Smartypants’s chair with her hip to get his attention and leans in. You both follow suit.

“Cop behind Jen-jen. Obvious. Dressed like a fuckin’ clown for some reason? Anyway, we’re sober ravers until he leaves.”

You nod and Smartypants continues twirling his glowsticks and you and Funshine continue to jump around like wild things and sure enough, the ‘undercover’ cop approaches you.

“Hey,” he says, sidling up like you’re all old friends. “You guys got any X?”

You have to force down your snort. Who the fuck calls it X anymore?

You and Funshine stop bouncing and she doesn’t hold back her snort of derision. But then she says, “Nah, man, we’re _sober_ ravers. Peace, love, unity, respect _and_ responsibility. Can’t dance if you’re dead.”

“Yeah.” You force yourself to catch your breath and hope the darkness of the warehouse hides your dilated eyes. “Get your drug bullshit away from us.”

The cop holds up his hands. “All right, all right.” He throws you a peace sign and walks away.

Once he’s out of earshot -- and that doesn’t take long, the music is so loud it pulses through your skin with every beat -- Smartypants rolls his eyes and laughs.

“God, it’s like they’re not even trying anymore.”

It’s so good to see him smile.

Eventually the set has to end, because music can’t go on forever. The three of you finally come to a halt, panting and grinning and laughing and your legs are even shaking with exertion. But then, after a long pause, another beat drops, one everyone in the party knows. Funshine, Smartypants, and you all grin even brighter. When the beat pauses, you all throw your heads back and howl,

“Now is the time!”

And then it’s frenetic jumping and laughter and smiles all around. Everyone in the warehouse throws their hands in the air and just jumps up and down in literal joy, because how could you _not_ when an old-school classic like this starts to play? This was what, ’94, when you were just a toddler? But it still sings in your veins like heroin, the beat still pounds inside you like a heartbeat, because this is where you belong and who you should be there with.

You grab Smartypants’s hands and continue jumping as he shakes his whole upper body back and forth with the beat, and Funshine puts her hands on your shoulders and jumps with you.

When the song is over, you’re all winded for real this time, and you and Funshine collapse to the floor against the wall. Smartypants rolls up beside you, his shoulders heaving, like yours, like Funshine’s. You’ve sat in something wet and sticky and you grimace a little as it soaks into your pants. Hopefully someone just spilled a smuggled in drink and it’s not something worse. But now you’re in it and your jeans aren’t getting any worse, so you stay.

Funshine crawls into your lap and presses her soft chest against yours, nuzzling against your neck. You sigh softly and lean back against the wall beside Smartypants. You glance over at him and he grins and gives you a thumbs up.

“I miss you, Jen,” Funshine says, a playful almost whine.

“I’m right here,” you grin, gently tugging on her hair. She hums softly and shivers.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “Why won’t Kylie open up your relationship? You can be with him _and_ with me and Smarty.”

You put your hands on her hips and she squeaks in delight, but it turns into a groan of disappointment when you gently push her away.

“I mean, yeah, that would be ideal,” you say, “but I love Kylie, and _he’s_ monogamous, so _we’re_ monogamous.”

She pouts her bottom lip, but she backs off, as you ask. She’s never pushed it further than you’ve let it go.

You laugh and boop her nose. “Go kiss your boyfriend. I bet he’d love it.”

Smartypants opens his arms wide and Funshine grins at him. She pops up and bounces over, plopping down in his lap. Smartypants has never let anyone else do that as far as you know, not even you, not even children. He trusts her completely.

They go straight to a hundred in moments, hands so far into each other’s clothes they might as well not be wearing any. You laugh and give Funshine and Smartypants each a fist bump, and you look back out at the dancing crowd, still waiting for your second wind, and not for the first time do you wish Kylie liked to come, too.

Not long later, a bright light shines from the front door. You squint at it.

Oh, shit, a flashlight.

“We have to get out of here.” You push yourself up and drag Funshine out of Smartypants’s lap. They both whine and grab at each other but you shake the collar of Fusnhine’s shirt and say, “No, seriously, we have to go. There’s someone here with a flashlight.”

“Cop,” Funshine says. “There’s a back door. I saw it when I was parking. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

You all casually make your way to the back door, trying not to draw attention to yourselves. Once you get outside, Funshine throws Smartypants over her shoulder, you grab his wheelchair, and you dart for the car.

“You’re the only one I’d ever let do this to me, you know,” Smartypants mutters as Funshine gets him in the car. “Fucking humiliating.”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry,” Funshine says. “But with the gravel, it was faster this way.”

Meanwhile, you’re trying to get the wheelchair into the hatchback, but you can’t get it at the right angle and it keeps falling back on you.

“Jen, be careful!” she hisses, pushing you aside so she can take over. “We can’t afford to replace it!”

“I was just --“

“I know, Jen-jen, I’m sorry.” She kisses your cheek as she finishes tucking the wheelchair safely into the car. “Get in the car and let’s get out of here.”

The car ride is silent at first. Not even music. You try to peer into the rearview mirror but all you can see is the top of Funshine’s head. She obsessively checks all three mirrors up front, but after about ten minutes, she relaxes and grins.

“We should be good,” she says.

You exhale fast and quick and Smartypants runs his hands through his hair like he’s trying to clean something out of it. A light catches your eye outside the window and you jump, slamming your hands over your mouth so the cops can’t hear you, but it’s just the streetlamps along the road. You watch them, entranced, as they leave behind trails of beautiful light, not just the yellowish light of the lamps themselves but all the colors, every one. Funshine is driving slow and careful, and oh, yeah, she ate a candy blotter and a dose of molly, too, didn’t she?

“Should you be driving?” Your voice is soft, gentle, and hopefully not in any way accusing.

“Are you going to drive instead?” But it’s as lighthearted and gentle as your question was.

“I just mean… with the acid.”

Smartypants’s shoulders tense and his head whirls toward Funshine.

“You did, didn’t you? Has it worn off yet?”

Funshine’s eyes are forward on the road. She leans closer to the steering wheel to make sure she can see.

“No,” she says without looking at him. “It’s only been four hours. I’ve got at least two to go.”

“Oh my god.” His voice is a nervous, trembling whine, and after what happened last time, you don’t blame him.

“No, no, no,” Funshine says gently. “Don’t do that. I can do this. We just have to make it to Jen’s and we can sleep on the floor. He won’t make us drive home.”

“I don’t know if Kylie would be happy about that,” you start. Smartypants keens in stress,

“But we can’t go all the way --“

“But I will _explain_ to him,” you finish gently. “He’d be even less happy about you driving home high. Also, he will probably be furious that we even drove back to my place at all instead of calling a cab.”

“We don’t have money for a cab,” Funshine says tersely. “It all went to Ashley and to our entrance fee.”

“I know you won’t want to,” Smartypants says, “but please, Jen, will you see if Kylie can meet us and drive us the rest of the way? When my disability check comes in I’ll give him gas money plus a little extra for the inconvenience.”

“I can _do_ this, Smarty --“ Funshine starts.

“ _Please_?”

“I’ll text him.” You slide your phone out of your pocket and pull up your messages, then scroll down until you reach his number.

_I’m so sorry Kylie but the party got busted and we’re still so fucking high and Funshine_

You fat finger it and send it unfinished, but you keep going.

_Funshine is too high to drive and Smarty can’t and I don’t have a license and I’m so sorry but can you pick us up?_

Thankfully his text comes back almost immediately, so he probably wasn’t asleep.

_…Seriously?_

_:c I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I swear._

_You can’t take a Lyft or something?_

_We don’t have enough money._

A long, long pause. By now Funshine’s found a safe place to pull over and is tapping her slender fingers on the steering wheel to some pattern or rhythm only she can hear. Smartypants is clenching and unclenching his fists and his teeth grinding is obviously not just the molly. Your hands tremble a little from the cocktail of drugs in your system, so you have to type letter by letter with just one finger.

_Please?_

_It’ll be a while. I’m only halfway home from work,_

Followed immediately by a second text:

_You’d better appreciate this, I just got off a double._

_We do, we do, honest, and I’ll do my best to never let this happen again. Next time we go out we’ll make sure we have money to get home just in case._

_Where do they live?_

_Schaumburg_

_Are you kidding? You expect me to take them out to Schaumburg after working a double??_

You bite your lip. Your eyebrows furrow and you sniffle a little as you try to hold back your tears, but your throat is still tight.

_No, I thought… I thought they could sleep in the living room? And we could give them money to get back to their car tomorrow if you don’t want to drive? Smarty says he’ll pay you back when his disability check comes in._

_Jen, you are really tap dancing on my last nerve right now._

_:c I’m so so so sorry. I’ll make you pancakes tomorrow morning???_

Another long pause.

“Jen, what’s --“

“Hang on a second, Smarty.”

He bites his lip again and turns back ahead.

Finally, your text tone sounds and the phone vibrates. The message simply says: _Fine. But they have to be out by 8am._

You breathe.

_Thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!_

“He’ll come to get us,” you say. Funshine’s and Smartypants’s shoulders both slump in relief, as do yours. “He’s really mad, though. He just came off a double. So be quiet when he gets us, no loud or sudden noises, no loud music, no yelling, even happy yelling. Just.” You put your phone on your knee and bring your hands to your shoulders, then lower them, palms down. “Quiet, gentle, relaxed.”

“Okay,” they chorus.

“You’re going to crash with me tonight. Uh. We don’t have heat. So, sorry in advance. I’ll get you as many blankets as I can, though.”

“We have some in the back, too, so we can bring those,” Funshine says.

“Yeah,” Smartypants continues. “She’s always afraid my legs will get too cold in the winter.”

You unbuckle and get up on your knees so you can dig around Smartypants’s wheelchair for the blankets and any extra jackets. It’s going to be a long, cold wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit me at @indecentpause on tumblr for moodboards, playlists, and other wips!!


	3. Chapter 3

You don’t sleep. The best way to get through a molly crash and to get rid of the lingering effects of acid is to sleep them off, but even so. Your whole body vibrates all the way from the center, and you watch the sun come up.

The nice thing is that Kylie’s curled up into you, which means he’s mad, but not _that_ mad. You give him a gentle squeeze and a kiss on the forehead and worm your way out of his grasp, slowly, so as not to wake him. When you step out of bed, you try to avoid the squeaky floorboard on your way to the window, forgetting in your tired haze that Kylie can’t hear it anyway, and you pull the blinds shut so he can get some more sleep, even if you can’t.

Funshine and Smartypants are also up, sitting on the couch side by side with their heads ducked into each other as they talk quietly. It looks like they slept with even their kandy on, but then, you didn’t have any clothes that would fit them, anyway.

They look up and pull the blanket around them closer when they see you. You smile weakly.

“How’d you two sleep?”

Funshine shrugs. “We got a couple hours. Still tired. But the drugs have worn off.”

“You?” Smartypants asks. He stretches his neck and rolls his shoulder, as if it’s not quite in the right place.

You chuckle and shake your head as you lean against the wall. “Nope. The worst of the molly crash is over, though, and most of the acid has worn off. Just a little --“ you wave your hands around your face -- “around the edges.”

Smartypants still has his watch on, so you nod at him and ask, “What time is it?”

“7:30.”

“Oh, shit. Kylie wants you out by 8:00. Um. Funshine, I need your help making pancakes. My hands are still too shaky. Everything is still in the same places. Could you grab the yellow cookbook and use that recipe?”

Funshine nods. “Sure.”

You press your hands together and smile. “Thank you so much. I’ll go get you some money to get back to your car. Uber, Lyft, cab?”

Smartypants and Funshine share a glance. “It’s easier to get a wheelchair friendly cab,” Smartypants says. “The brown line just down the street is accessible, so we can take that to get closer and save you guys some money. You’re obviously not doing great if your heat got shut off.”

You smile weakly and nod, and head back into the bedroom for your emergency cash stash.

It wasn’t enough to turn the gas back on, but at least there will be enough for their ‘L’ cards and a cab.

You count it out and fold it in half, then when you get back to the living room you hand it to Smartypants. He’s in his wheelchair, now, and he puts the money in the little zip pocket on the side. Funshine is already starting on the pancakes.

“Just transfer me the money when you get it,” you say. “Since we have the same bank and all. I’d have Kylie do it but I don’t want to wake him up. He banks with someone else anyway.”

You start a pot of coffee and help Funshine by gathering the rest of the ingredients, which she then measures and starts to cook. You wiggle in front of her to look down in the pan, and she’s so much taller than you she can just wrap her arms around your stomach and lean her chin on the top of your head. Smartypants plays music from his phone, softly, and you get through three pans and are on your last when the bedroom door opens and Kylie comes out, disheveled and slow to move, on his way to the bathroom.

He pauses when he sees you. A bright smile spreads over your face and even though you’re shivering from cold and trembling from withdrawal and lack of sleep, you’re the warmest you’ve ever been. You slide under Funshine’s arm and bounce over to Kylie, and you throw your arms around his neck.

And when he pushes you away, gently but firmly by the shoulders, you’re glad his ears aren’t in yet so he can’t hear the little hurt noise that punches out of you.

The music stops and Funshine stops humming, though you can still hear the pancakes cooking.

“Kylie?”

He shakes his head and gestures to his ears, then starts to sign.

“I told you I wanted them out by 8:00.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” you sign back. “Funshine was helping me make pancakes and we lost track. I’ll tell them to leave. Go do whatever you need to do.”

Kylie nods and heads into the bathroom.

Smartypants and Funshine are both very carefully not looking at you when you approach them again.

“Sorry, you have to go _now_.” You grab a paper towel and wrap up some of the pancakes for them, shove them in Funshine’s hands, and ask, “Is there anything you brought that you don’t have? Do you have all your blankets?” They’re still wearing their jackets, because it’s almost as cold inside as outside.

Funshine nods. “I packed it up already.” She hugs you, and Smartypants grabs your hand and squeezes. They both let go at the same time.

“I’m so sorry, Jen,” Smartypants says. “If Kylie is really mad, tell him to blame me. It was my idea to text him.”

“Or he can blame me,” Funshine says, “since I should have been sober to drive home.”

She holds her arms out for Smartypants and says, “All right, I’ll take you downstairs and Jen will get the wheelchair.”

Smartypants sighs and lifts his arms so Funshine can carry him, bridal style, down the stairs. But he buries his nose in her neck, which means he’s more okay with that than the fireman’s carry she did in a hurry last night.

Once you get down the stairs, you hug them both one more time and ask if they need anything more, and when they say they don’t, you direct them down the easiest path to get to the brown line by walking.

“Text me when you guys get back, okay?” you call after them as you wave.

“Will do!” Smartypants pauses just long enough to wave back before he wheels off beside Funshine again.

When you get up the stairs, Kylie is just coming out of the bathroom. Maybe he took a sink bath. You should do the same.

You catch his eye and sign, “Go back to bed. I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

Finally, Kylie smiles, and he signs an earnest, “Thank you.”

You head back into the kitchen. It’s such a tiny space, so how could it have gotten so messy? There’s flour and pancake batter on the counter, and a pancake on the floor, and the coffeepot isn’t overflowing but it’s still _much_ too full to pour. With a sigh, you scrub your face and mumble, “One thing at a time, Jen.”

You put the dirty dishes in the sink, squeeze in some soap, and pour over some water. With a cringe of expectation, you realize you’re going to have to wash in cold water. At least the stove is electric. Maybe you could heat some water there?

That would be good for sink baths, too! Kylie will be so happy!

Your mood picks up a little and you set up the pancakes the way Kylie likes them -- with margarine and orange marmalade -- since it doesn’t matter to you, and you pour two cups of coffee with soy creamer and a ridiculous amount of sugar to yours, then carefully balance it all in your arms.

Kylie’s putting his ears in when you get back to the bed. He’s sitting on his side with his back to you as he finishes putting everything in place. His shoulders and neck are tight and he’s grunting like he has a headache. You’ll get him some medicine, too.

“Kylie?” you murmur.

He turns toward you and smiles when he sees the food and coffee mugs.

“Thank you,” he says.

You hand him his mug and the plate and look down at your own coffee and say, “The kitchen’s pretty messy, so I’ll go clean it --“

He gently grabs your elbow as you turn. “It can wait,” he says gently.

With a hopeful smile, you look up at his gentle, doe-brown eyes, his soft smile. He tugs gently. “Sit and eat with me.”

You put your mug down on the table beside your bed and Kylie puts the plate between you.

“Were you able to get some sleep last night?” you ask.

Kylie shrugs and stuffs a bite of pancake in his mouth. “Not as much as I had hoped. What about you?”

You shake your head and take a sip of your coffee. Your hands are shaking and you almost pour it down your front. A few deep breaths and you close your eyes, trying to still your trembling fingers.

“Jen? Are you all right?”

You sniffle and shake your head.

“Do you need to…”

You open your eyes when he trails off, but he hasn’t at all, he’s signing to you: “Smoke?”

Your shoulders slump in relief. “You don’t mind?”

Kylie smiles. “Just share?”

“You --?”

Kylie nods. “It would be impossible to make it through my job without something a little extra. Most of the people I work with do cocaine. I thought, comparatively, weed is not so bad.”

“Is that why you’ve never gotten on my case about it?”

Kylie frowns and puts his fork down on the plate, a piece of pancake still pierced on the tines. “Jen, I do not care if you do club drugs. I worry about the stupid decisions you make when you are on them.”

“Like last night?”

“Like last night.”

You smile a tiny smile and take another sip of your coffee. Kylie gently wraps his fingers around your mug and takes it from you, crawling closer so he can reach behind you and put it on your bedside table.

“Here,” he says gently. “I will roll one.”

“Yeah,” you laugh weakly. “I’d probably just spill it all over the place.”

He makes quick work of it. The seeds have already been sorted out, so there’s not much to do. The lighter fails a couple of times, but then he’s got it, and he takes a deep, slow inhale, holds his breath, and releases it in a stream of smoke.

You take the second hit, and the third, and the fourth, and Kylie doesn’t get mad at you for hogging it. He can see your limbs trembling, the bruises under your eyes, your chapped lips. He knows how much you need it.

When it starts to seep into the sleep-deprived crevices of your brain, finally, you hand it back to Kylie. He takes another hit and you eat a pancake.

Your hair falls into your face while you do, though, and some of the marmalade catches onto it. You stuff the rest of the pancake into your mouth and try to comb the jam out with your fingers, but your hair is greasy and stringy and gross and needs to be washed. With a heavy sigh, you realize you’ll probably have to start pulling it back in a bun instead of just a ponytail when you go out. You’ll probably have to start using two forks. You pick up two more pancakes with your fingers and stuff them in your mouth, and after the food is all chewed and swallowed, you gently headbutt Kylie with your temple, like a loving cat. It’s the only way you know how to show affection without kisses or touches.

Kylie places his hand on the side of your neck and gently rubs at it with his thumb.

“Go clean up a little,” he suggests. “You will feel better.”

“I figured out, since the stove’s electric, we can heat up water and at least wash our hair and faces.”

Kylie lovingly pats your cheek. “Go do that, then. I will eat the rest since there is not much left, and meet you out with dishes when I am done.”

“I’ll wash them,” you offer. “Please don’t be mad about the kitchen. I know it’s a mess. I’ll clean it before I go to work tonight though, honest.” But Kylie is so warm you don’t want to move. His body heat radiates, even through his layers and layers of clothing, his shoulder comforting and cushioned and warm on your cheek.

“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” Kylie says gently. “It is okay if you have to do it tomorrow. I know you have not gotten any sleep yet.” He nudges your side with his elbow and continues, “Go wash up. At least get the water started.”

And you do.

 

The next few days pass in a blur. Kylie works but you don’t seem to. You have alarms set in your phone though, so you’ll know when it’s time to go back. You run out of weed eventually but Kylie offers you some of his so you don’t have to call Ashley or Funshine and Smartypants.

“It’s no trouble,” you say. “Funshine always smokes me out for free, so if you joined us I’m sure it would --”

“No,” Kylie says, a little too firmly.

“Okay.” You give in, because you don’t want a fight, not this early in the morning when you should be sleeping and he should just be getting up. You just want to smoke and crash.

But then--

“What day is today?” You whirl toward Kylie, eyes wide and bright.

“Friday?”

“Oh hell yes!” you exclaim. “My paycheck will have gone through! We can turn the heat back on!”

Kylie’s eyes widen to match yours, and he breaks out in a grin.

You whirl around and fumble for your phone and wallet, which you keep on your bedside table. The bill is there, too, right underneath them: a reminder of your responsibility to Kylie.

You huddle under the pile of blankets and Kylie wraps himself around you, laying his head on your shoulder.

After you make the call and get everything taken care of -- it won’t be back on until _Monday_ , ugh! -- you throw everything in a haphazard pile on your beside table and wiggle around in Kylie’s grip so you can pull him against your chest. Kylie turns his head to the side and takes in a deep drag, then hands the joint your way as he exhales smoke.

After you take your hit but before you pass the joint back, you kiss his hair and say, “I love you, Kylie.” It’s the most natural thing that’s ever rolled off your tongue.

“I love you, Jen,” he says. You beam. “Thank you for turning the gas back on right away.”

You hug him a little closer, almost hurt that he thinks he has to thank you for that. Are you really that irresponsible?

“I just won’t have much money again until my next check,” you say. “This’ll eat it all up.”

“Can you pick up any more hours?”

“I’m already at the max for part-time. The closer we get to Christmas I might, but not for now. They really don’t want me at full time so they don’t have to give me benefits.”

“Assholes.”

You snort a laugh. Kylie rarely swears aloud, usually only in ASL, so it’s always a fun surprise. “Yeah.”

Over the weekend, both of you have to work, so you don’t see much of each other until Monday. But when you come home from work just as Kylie’s getting up, he presses a hot mug of your favorite tea into your hand and says, “After you take a nap, I thought we could go downtown and just… wander for a while? Since they have not turned the gas back on yet, it is the same temperature anyway. And the weather report said there might be gentle snow. I know you like snow.”

You beam. Even with your gas bill fuckup, Kylie still wants to take you on dates!

“We can make mugs of coffee so we don’t have to stop at an overpriced café!” you suggest.

“Yes!” Kylie grins. “That would be perfect! I can see if we still have the big thermos so we can refill them!”

You throw yourself at him in a hug, and he tugs you in close, burying his nose in your hair. For a while, you both stay like that, just breathing each other in, until Kylie grabs your sides and the tickle reverberates in your whole body. You squeal and pull away, and Kylie laughs and says, “We should put our clothes on. Wear two pairs of socks, okay?”

“Okay.” You pop a kiss onto Kylie’s nose, but you don’t hop out of bed yet. Neither does he.

After all, it’s so much warmer under the blankets.

Thankfully you manage to doze off a few hours after sharing a joint, and Kylie, sweet, thoughtful Kylie, doesn’t wake you. But noon isn’t too late, really. Still plenty of time to wander.

It’s after Thanksgiving -- it is, isn’t it, you never celebrated so you hadn’t noticed -- so you decide to start at the Christmas Windows at Macy’s in Downtown Chicago and go from there. Kylie takes up in a parking garage nearby, even though the price is exorbitant.

“We will just be careful while we are out today,” he says. “I will get paid tomorrow, so we can still go grocery shopping and pay rent, as long as you save most of your next paycheck.”

“Done!”

He smiles at you and you grin. He hasn’t smiled much over this past month, so it’s so wonderful when he does. The bags under his eyes keep getting darker, and his mouth on his resting face keeps turning more and more down on the edges. It’s not resting bitch face, really. It’s resting… disappointed face. Resting sad face. Resting ‘I’m tired and don’t know what to do anymore’ face.

But for now, he’s smiling, and that’s the most important thing in the world.

Even though you don’t know your neighbors, they know you and Kylie are together, because you’re two guys living in a one-bedroom alone. What else could that mean? But even though you get dirty looks in that area a lot, here, downtown, everyone’s too busy getting somewhere to give a shit about two men holding hands, so you can do so freely and even joyfully.

Aside from the weed you both smoked this morning, today you’re sober. You haven’t even taken your Adderall because you need to save it for workdays, since Ashley drives the price up so much. So you’re a little tired, a little buzzy, a little… vibratey in the head, and your hands tremble a bit and the bright colors and lights you’d usually love are just a _little_ much.

Kylie grips your hand a little tighter, just firm enough to be comforting, and he signs with his other hand, “Somewhere quiet?”

You nod. He smiles and leads you away from the busy windows and toward the Daley Plaza. As he does, you look wistfully back over your shoulder, because even if you hate Christmas, the decorations are _so_ bright and colorful and cheery, and you need that when you’re sober. But when you’re sober, it’s also too much to handle.

You turn your face down toward the pavement, using people’s shoes as markers so you don’t run into anyone. Kylie twists his arm behind his back at the elbow and brings you closer, and you stick your other hand in his jacket pocket. The only reason you don’t bury your nose in his shoulder is because it would be too awkward to walk.

He leads you past the Christkindlmarket and over the bridge toward Millennium Park, where he shuffles you past the ice skating rink and nearer to the auditorium where it’s quiet.

Kylie gently pats your chin and you look up. “Cup of coffee?” His voice is a little loud, a little more slurred than usual. You glance over at his ears, hidden beneath his shaggy black hair and beanie, and realize he must have taken his ears out at some point between the parking garage and now.

You nod.

He untangles your hands and digs through the backpack for your travel mugs and thermos and pours you a cup, already mixed with soymilk and sugar. Your hands shake as you lift it to your mouth. Kylie gently takes it from you and takes the first few sips so you won’t spill into your lap, then hands it back.

“Thank you,” you sign, but it’s with your right hand, the non-dominant one, so it’s a little crooked and shaky. Kylie takes the gloved hand and squeezes gently, then places it on the mug.

“Drink that,” he signs. “Maybe it’ll help, since caffeine calms you down.”

You close your eyes and take a sip. It’s not piping hot anymore, but it’s nice and warm in the chill of the air and it thaws your mouth and nose.

Then Kylie pulls your hat closer to your head and settles your headphones around your ears. They’re the big, heavy, noise-cancelling kind, the pair you’d saved up for almost a year to buy.

“Even if you don’t want to listen to music, you can get some quiet,” he signs.

And though normally you don’t kiss in public, right now, it’s the only way you can begin to think of thanking him for being so thoughtful, and you clutch your mug tighter so there won’t be a spill when you press the side of your nose to his and kiss him, chastely, but firmly enough he knows you mean it. When you pull away, he smiles at you warmly -- but something else, too, something you’re not sure what it is -- and tucks a stray bit of hair back under your hat. He kisses your nose and pours his own mug, and after the thermos is back in the backpack, he drops a bag of marshmallows in your lap.

Your head jerks up and your eyes go wide and bright, brighter than the sun bouncing off the skating rink and the fairy lights in the windows and the shiny ornaments on the big tree in the Daley Plaza.

“For me?” You forget to sign, you’re so taken off guard, but Kylie catches the gist of it and grins.

“For you,” he signs. “I know it’s not much, but, Happy Thanksgiving. I love you.”

And his laughter when you smash your face into the puffy bag is so soft and warm, if you wrapped yourself in it, you’d never be cold again.

For a while, you sit up at the bench near the top of the concrete steps, sipping your coffee and half-watching the ice skaters below. It would be so nice to invite Kylie to skate with you, but you can’t afford the rental fee, and after that parking garage payment he’s not going to have much left, either. So instead you sit side by side, your left leg curled at the knee in his right, drinking in muffled quiet until the sun goes down and it gets too cold to stay out much longer.

And you’re going to go home, and not be able to go to bed, and stay up all night alone. Then, tomorrow, you’re going to fight to sleep so you can back to another stupid, dumb, boring workday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kylie belongs to @ohsugarfoot (on tumblr) and Ronan belongs to @avalonjoan (also tumblr)!
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing wife, Sugar, for helping me through when I got stuck, and to all my friends on tumblr who have been so supportive of this as a WIP. I hope it doesn't disappoint! <3


	4. Chapter 4

“Atreyu!”

You look up from the box you’re unloading when you hear James the Night Shift Manager’s voice from up the stairs. You look down at all the bracelets around your wrist and slide them off with clean, quick movements, covering them in some shirts. Then you go back to hanging things up for inventory, and you look over your shoulder and call, “Yeah?”

Footsteps thunk down the stairs. Even though they make you wear these stupid button ups, at least you can wear boots at night.

James peers down into the room, empty but for you. Having someone do this one at a time almost 24/7 probably benefits them, but it really cuts into your hours.

But then he gives you that weird, cheeky half grin he does when he’s telling someone a secret, and he says, “We want to hire you on full-time after the holidays.”

Now, you knew this, of course, because you overheard him last week. But to hear it aloud, spoken directly to you, is something else entirely.

It’ll be the first time in years you’ll have real, long term work.

“Would I still be working down here?” you ask, even though you can deal with shitty customers if it means Kylie can deal with that horrible kitchen less. You’re already going to say yes. But if you can get a little more out of it by playing coy, well, why not, right?

“Yes,” James says. “You’ll still be working down here, just more hours a day and more days a week. Between 38 and 40. Otherwise, nothing will really change.”

“Then yeah!” You beam, trying not to seem _too_ overly excited, but _wow_ , full time work!

“All right. You have until Friday to get your drug test done. I’ll give you the paperwork and address at the end of the shift, okay? You can’t come back until it comes back negative, but no worries, right?”

Drug test. Right now you’d test positive for, like, _everything_. Molly. Amphetamines. Benzos. Weed. Even just weed would be bad enough, but all that other shit, too?

Should you just quit?

“Okay.” It comes out of your mouth of its own will, an agreement to something you know you’ll fuck up but have to try anyway.

Guess you’re getting some niacin on your way home. It’s time for a burn.

 

Thankfully there’s a 24-hour pharmacy on your bus route not too far from your apartment, so you get off a few stops early and pick up some 500mg niacin. You grab a bottle of 5-HTP, too. Maybe it will help with the sad emptiness you feel when you’re alone.

Nobody asks what it’s for. Why would they? You could just have a deficiency, and it’s sold over the counter. It would be like asking why you’re buying aspirin.

You dump the two bottles in your backpack so you don’t have to pay the bag tax and make your way home.

Kylie isn’t up yet. He miraculously has two days off in a row, even though he’ll start paying for it when he goes back in tomorrow. But for now, you let him sleep. You pour a glass of water and down a 5-HTP. Then you turn the niacin bottle around on the counter a few times while you do some math in your head.

Normally a niacin burn would last four to five days. You have two. So if you need to take 500mg twice a day on a normal burn, you’d need…

Well, shit. This is going to fucking suck.

You down three pills and lie down on the couch. The heat’s finally back on and Kylie has it going, so you don’t need a blanket.

You try to sleep.

 

You don’t.

About an hour later, you have to throw the blankets onto the floor because you’re so hot and uncomfortable, and you try to lie back and breathe through it, but it’s so, so, so hot, and the only thing you want right now is the coldest bath your faucet can manage. It’s winter so the water will actually be cold.

With a grunt and a groan, you push yourself up and stumble to the bathroom. You strip and collapse in the bathtub a little too hard and a sharp pain shoots through your hip where you collide.

The ceramic of the tub is cool against your flush-hot skin. You try to force yourself to sit up so you can turn on the water, but you’re so tired, and everything hurts, and the tub is so cool and nice.

For a long time, you stare up at the ceiling, counting the tiles, grouping them by shape, by number, by twos and threes and sixes. After a while your eyes start to cross and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes so hard you see galaxies explode in the darkness behind your eyelids, and the stars are still there when you open your eyes.

 

Someone is touching you. You’re naked and vulnerable and detoxing in the bath and someone is touching you.

You flail out and whine, but then Kylie’s gentle, if a little exasperated, voice, says, “Jen! Jen, it is just me. It is me, Kylie. It is okay. I am just going to help you up and help you take a shower. Okay?”

You squint at him in the bright bathroom light. He’s not lying. He is Kylie. And Kylie’s never hurt you before.

So, “’Kay,” you mumble, and you let him help you up.

Kylie doesn’t climb in with you, but he keeps the shower curtain open and he’s taken his shirt off so he can reach in and help if you need him to. He’s so good. Kylie is so, so good. You tell him so, and he just says, “I do not have my ears in. I just woke up. You will have to sign.”

So you repeat it in ASL, and Kylie sighs softly, and he smiles.

Thank god his ears aren’t in, because when he turns the cold water on, it hurts so bad you _scream_. A sharp pain like a million frozen needles in your skin, like thousands of knives in your back and arms and legs.

His head jerks up when your nails dig into his arm, and his hands dart out to steady you. He asks, slurred because he’s going too fast, “Jen! Jen, what is wrong?”

“Hurts,” you sign.

Kylie adds a little warm water to make it more tolerable, and as it starts to blend with the cold, you relax a little.

“Thank you,” you sign, repeating the motion over and over as your shoulders hunch in and your jaw tightens, and then your hand loosens and curls over your shoulder. A sob starts deep in your stomach, crawling up into your throat and out of your mouth. It burns coming out, like battery acid, and even with the cool water everything is still so hot, including the tears welling up in your eyes. You’re so dehydrated you can feel the salt, and it burns.

Kylie gently helps you turn so you’re better facing him and he puts his hands on either of your cheeks. They’re cool and callused and _Kylie_ , and when you open your eyes, the tears start to fall.

“Talk to me,” Kylie says. “What happened? Are you sick? You have a very high fever. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No!” you sign sharply, eyes wide and wild and scared. The intake nurse will take one look at you and ask the doctor to order a drug test. “I’m doing a niacin burn. I have to drug test to get the full time position at work. I only have two days so I have to triple the dose or I won’t even get close.” Another sob, sharp and hot. “I don’t even know if this will work. But I have to try.”

Kylie’s mouth sets in a harsh line, but only for a moment before it relaxes again. It’s almost as if he knows it’s a waste of time, too, but doesn’t want to make out your suffering to be in vain. He starts to move his hands away from your arms, but you grab them in your own and shake your head wildly.

“Jen, I need my hands to sign,” he says patiently. His words are getting more and more slurry, as they tend to the longer he goes without his ears. “I do not want to put my ears in until you are out of the shower in case they get splashed. But we need our hands, okay?”

You sniffle and nod and he pulls away, successfully this time.

“Okay,” he signs. “I’m going to get you a cup of ice water. I’ll be right back.”

“But --”

“Right back, Jen.” He signs with intent, with firm, sure movements.

So you let him go.

True to his word, he’s back in moments. He pulls the shower curtain over so he can see you from the other end and gestures you forward. When the water is just on your calves, he hands you the glass and says, “When you drink the whole thing, you can come out and dry off.”

You nod and wipe at your runny nose with your other arm. First you just take a small sip to gauge how cold it is, and it’s freezing, and it’s _so nice_ , and you down the whole glass in less than a minute and then wipe a leftover ice cube on your face. Now that the shower has cooled you down a bit, it doesn’t hurt as much, even though it’s still a little uncomfortable. But you have to bring your fever down because if you hit 104, Kylie’s going to force you into the hospital no matter what you say, and that means a drug test, and that potentially means forced rehab, and you don’t have the money or time for that bullshit.

 _Would_ they try to ship you off to one of the state hospitals? You don’t know for sure. There are a lot of conflicting stories and the only ones you’d trust are Kylie, Funshine, and Smartypants, and they don’t know because they’ve never been. You’re not sure if they’d call the police if you aren’t on probation. Ambulances don’t.

But no matter. It’s not worth the risk.

Kylie turns off the water and wraps the biggest, fluffiest towel around you, his towel, the nice one out of all the thinning and threadbare ones you own. He dries your hair a little too roughly and you’re about to protest before he so, so gently wipes down your face, and that’s enough to make up for it, so you don’t complain.

Once you’re dry he leads you into the bedroom and gets you some clean boxers.

“Do you want a shirt, too?” he signs.

You pause for a long moment.

“Jen?”

Your head snaps up when you finally hear Kylie say your name. He’s waving at you to get your attention.

“Do you want a shirt, or are you too hot?” he repeats.

“Yes, please,” you sign.

He opens another drawer, grabs a big shirt out of it, and tosses it over. You fumble, but you catch it.

After he puts his ears in, Kylie slides over the bed to your side, next to where you’re standing, and he gently slips one hand onto your side, just above your hip. It’s wide and cool and callused and familiar, and it reminds you to breathe. He squeezes once and you look back into his eyes.

“Is it because you have not been able to take your Adderall?” he asks softly.

“I think so,” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes.

“What?”

“I think so.” You’re clearer this time.

A pause.

“You said you were doing a niacin burn. What is that?”

That’s right. Kylie’s never been around for one before.

Oh, he’s in for a fucking treat.

“It’s when…” You rub your eyes hard to try to bring your focus back, but it’s almost physically painful to get your brain to stop dozing off or jumping around in the middle of a thought. It hurts behind your eyes.

“It’s when you know you have drugs in your system and you have to take a test, but you don’t have time to completely detox, or you have stuff like weed in your system that can hang around for up to a month. Adderall can last up to three days, molly for four. I‘m not sure about Xanax. I only have two days.”

You sniffle and wipe your nose on the collar of your shirt.

“Do not do that,” Kylie says gently. He grabs a box of tissues from his side of the bed and hands them to you.

“Thank you,” you sign. You continue signing even though he has his ears in now, because your tongue is heavy with exhaustion, and he can’t understand you when you mumble. “So, a niacin burn is basically overdosing yourself on niacin to clear out your piss, so when you take your test everything comes out clean. Usually it takes five days, but I have two. So I have to take extra to make it work faster.”

Kylie looks skeptical. “Does it work like that? You said in the shower you did not even know if it would.”

Your hands hang in the air a moment as you try to form an answer to that question that won’t make you look like an idiot. But you can’t. So you push the beginning to the side to clear the slate and start again. “I _don’t_ know,” you sign. You latch your fingers together behind the base of your skull and look down. Your hair is still damp and will be for a while. You take in a deep, shuddering breath and bite your lower lip.

When you look up at Kylie again, he’s regarding you with a look that’s almost judgment but not exactly, that’s almost annoyance but not quite.

It’s not like you’re going through withdrawal again. He’s seen you come down off molly and Adderall and all number of things, long before the point where all you do is that, acid, and weed. You’re just flushing your system of the residuals. Why does he look so wary about it?

“It’s not like withdrawal,” you offer meekly. You look up so he can hear you clearly, your fingers still linked behind your neck. “I mean, I might… have mood swings and stuff, or get snippy, but it’s not going to be because of the niacin. It’ll just be because I feel like shit. I’m not going to hurt you, Kylie, I would never -- you _know_ that, right?”

Kylie’s mouth is tense even as he smiles. “I know, Jen.”

“I -- Kylie, I _mean_ it. I love you. I know I’m a fuckup but I _love_ you.”

His mouth and eyes relax and he reaches out for you. He makes a grabbing motion with his hand and you kneel on the bed, where he takes your elbow and helps you guide your head to the pillow.

“Lie down and try to sleep,” he says. He starts to put a blanket over you, but you push it back and shake your head.

“Too hot,” you mumble.

“Too hot?” he repeats, trying to clarify your muttering. You nod.

He kisses your damp forehead and brushes your tangled hair away from your face. If you don’t comb it now it’ll be in knots when you wake up, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You whine when a bright, narrow streak of light flashes through the room and Kylie says, “Shh, it is okay, I am just opening the window a little to cool down the room and bring in some fresh air.”

A nod and a whimper and you bury your head under your pillow because it’s too bright, but _that’s_ too hot, and fuck, you forgot about the itching but now it’s everywhere, especially your arms and hands. Your nails are long and they feel so good when you scratch the poor skin, and you keep scratching harder and harder to get more and more relief. Even when it starts to burn it’s better than the itching, but then Kylie gently grabs your wrists and puts your hands down on your chest. Oh, god, no wonder you can’t think. Your heart is beating faster and harder than a bass drum.

“Shh, shh,” Kylie says softly, gently rubbing his hands up and down your stinging arms. He lifts your hands and kisses your palms and says, “If you keep scratching, I will put socks on your hands. Okay?”

You sniffle and nod. Your head is still under the pillow.

“What?”

You shift your head so you can peek out and say, “Okay.”

“Okay. Just relax and try to get some sleep. I will bring you more water and then I will leave you alone in quiet.”

“Thank you, Kylie. I love you.”

You almost don’t notice him hesitate, it happens so quickly.

“I love you, too, Jen. Go to sleep. There will be water on the table for you when you wake up.”

“If I’m not awake by six,” you mumble, already starting to doze off, “wake me up for my next dose?”

“All right.”

 

You sleep.

 

When you wake up the light is dimmer, more orange, but not the orange of the lights outside. Late day orange. It’s sweltering even in the winter cold, and you want to take another cool shower, but it would hurt so bad and you’ve already dealt with so much pain today…

You tilt your head toward the bedside table. Kylie, true to his word, has left an old movie theatre cup full of water for you. The ice has long since melted but it’s still cold, and you drink almost the whole thing in one sitting.

Then you hear the clanging in the kitchen.

“Kylie?” you call.

No answer.

You look around the room to get your bearings and see Kylie’s case on his table. He took his ears out, maybe?

The window is still cracked and the cool air helps, but a lingering, vague feeling of nausea still pulses through you with every exhale. Slow, deep breaths. You try, anyway, but it’s a struggle. Your heart is still pounding and the only reason you know you aren’t having a heart attack is because your arm is okay.

It could be minutes or hours, though it’s probably just minutes because the light barely changes, but you finally manage to push yourself out of bed to go find Kylie and get your next dose. You shuffle out the door with your cup, eyes vacantly cast on your feet, but then another pair of feet appears in your vision and you look up with a weak smile on your face.

Oh, thank god, Kylie’s still home. He has to work tomorrow and you don’t know what you’re going to do without him.

Unless --

But you should wait on that until you’ve been up a little longer, so you can phrase it right and not upset him.

Kylie draws you into a gentle hug, careful not to touch your skin, maybe so he doesn’t make it any hotter? It’s a little awkward with the cup still clutched against your chest, but still. Kylie hugs are the best hugs. He’s always been a little self-conscious about being on the chubby side, but it makes his hugs so much better. You love hugging Funshine and Smartypants, but they’re both so skinny it’s like hugging a skeleton. That must be what hugging you is like.

But hugging Kylie is like being wrapped up in all that’s good and safe in the world.

“My ears are not in,” he says. “Let me fix that and I will show you what I made.”

You pull away with a curious hike of your eyebrows. You shift the cup to your right hand and sign with your left, “You made something? What?”

Kylie laughs. “I said I will show you!” He reaches as if he’s going to ruffle your hair, but then slows down and tucks it behind your ear instead. His hand follows it all the way down, past your shoulder, to your mid back. He smiles at you and kisses your forehead.

“You still have a fever,” he says. “Can you take anything? Or will that mess the detox up?”

“I think I just have to get through it,” you sign. Then you shrug.

Kylie’s smile turns sad. He maneuvers around you to get to his table and puts his ears back in with practiced ease. When he passes you again, he takes your hand and says, “Let’s get you some more water and something to eat.”

You step out of the bedroom and the apartment smells _amazing_.

“Kylie!” you exclaim, a bright grin on your tired face. “Did you cook?”

He squeezes your hand and glances over his shoulder.

“Sit down,” he says, and you do. He takes your cup and fills it up with more water and ice, then ladles something out of a pot into a different mug and brings them both back. The mug goes on the table, the water cup back into your hands.

“Keep drinking,” Kylie says.

You take a few gulps and turn to the mug on the table.

It’s veggie broth!

You whirl back around to him so fast and unsteady you almost fall out of the chair. “You made broth! Thank you, Kylie!”

He smiles and kisses the top of your head.

“Drink up both,” he says. “I will figure out something more substantial for dinner. It is almost six, so you will want your next dose.”

He grabs the two bottles from the little counter that separates the kitchen and the living room, then hands you the niacin. He pauses on the other bottle, reading over the label.

“What is 5-HTP?” he asks.

“It helps with serotonin levels,” you say. “I figure it might help.”

Satisfied with your explanation, Kylie hands it to you.

You down the four pills all in one go and chase them with a steady, long drink of cold water.

Kylie makes a simple dinner. Pan-grilled tofu and veggies, light on the seasonings so it doesn’t make your stomach any worse. You cut everything into tiny pieces and mix it in with a cup of broth to make soup. Kylie eats his off a plate. You’re both mostly quiet.

“Thank you, Kylie,” you finally say, breaking the silence.

He looks up from his plate, eyebrows raised a little. “What?”

“For… for everything. Everything you did for me today. Thank you.”

He smiles, small and weak.

“You’re tired,” you say.

He nods.

“We’ll put the dishes in the sink to soak and I’ll do them tomorrow while you’re at work,” you offer. Pause. Look back down at your soup, stir it a few times, glance over at the few bites left on Kylie’s plate. “Um, I wanted to ask.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Kylie hikes an eyebrow and twists his hand in a ‘go on,’ motion.

“Can I invite Funshine and Smarty to come over tomorrow while you’re at work?”

Kylie’s face hardens and you shrink back.

“I just, they’re my only friends besides you, and I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want you to have to call off because of me, and --”

“It is fine,” Kylie sighs. He tries to smile at you, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. “Just… stick with your niacin treatment, all right? No slipping. We cannot afford for you to lose your job.”

You hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.” For whatever it’s worth, anyway. You were never a boy scout. “I’ll probably just sleep most of the day, hopefully. I just want someone I know around in case something happens.”

Kylie’s face does something weird that looks like simultaneously relaxing and tensing. “Are you expecting something to happen?”

“Well, no. But just in case.”

He opens his mouth. Reconsiders. Closes it again.

Silence.

Finally, he says, “I trust you, Jen. Please do not ever give me cause to regret that.”

If your face weren’t already bright red from the burn, you’d flush bright and embarrassed.

“Promise, Kylie. Never.”


	5. Chapter 5

Your ringtone startles you into wakefulness the next day. Kylie is gone.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and push your hair out of your face. Your sleep dead hands fumble the phone a few times before you can get it to your cheek. You don’t read the caller ID.

“’Lo?” You clear your throat. “H’lo?”

“Jen-jen! Are you dead?”

“Funshine?”

She laughs. It’s in surround sound, banging around your aching head. You squint at the closed bedroom door. “Come out and take your pills. Kylie let us come in as long as we promised to make you take them and not go into the bedroom or steal anything.”

The more you wake up, the heavier your body gets. You sink through the bed, through the floor, through the downstairs neighbor’s apartment, into the concrete. RIP.

God. You’re so tired. You can barely keep your eyes open and they’re covered in a fine layer of sleep grit.

“Wanna go back to sleep,” you mumble, collapsing face first into your pillow. But you don’t hang up.

“Jen-jen!” Funshine says sternly. “I promised your boyfriend I would both make you take your pills and not violate the sacred space that is your bedroom or whatever. Don’t make a liar out of me!”

“G’night.”

She hangs up on you and, sure enough, moments later, she’s at your bedroom door, knocking just loudly and insistently enough that you won’t be able to get back to sleep.

“Fine!” you whine. “Just let me put some clothes on.”

You settle for a pair of old basketball shorts and an a-shirt that do not match one bit, but who cares, Funshine and Smartypants have seen you at your best and worst and mismatched clothes are hardly the worst thing they’ll see today.

When you open the door, Funshine is waiting there with a bright smile and arms open in offer of a hug. You collapse against her, burying your nose in her shoulder and letting out a heavy sigh.

“Thank you for calling us,” she murmurs. She runs her fingers through your hair, catching on a ball of tangles. “I don’t want you to have to be alone.”

Funshine works out the tangle with her fingers, then says, “Go find your favorite brush and a big cup of water and take your pills. I’ll work these knots out while we all watch a movie.”

You nod, and even though you want to stay there forever -- not romantically, not sexually, you just miss the comfort of one of your best friends -- you push yourself away and gesture back to the couch, where Smartypants lays sprawled across. He waves and calls over a greeting and you wave back, then shuffle to the bathroom to get your brush.

Once you have everything collected and you’ve taken your pills, Funshine spills out a backpack full of DVDs, Jen-suitable sweets, and kandy-making supplies.

“We’ll make it like a vacation day,” Funshine says. “We all know you’ve done this before and probably will again, but that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable.”

Smartypants laughs and pushes himself up into a sit so Funshine can sit beside him and you can sit in front of her, but first she puts on The Goonies (because they never say die) so you can have something to distract from the overwhelming heat in your body and the tugging at your scalp.

The beads are all in sandwich bags, colors and shapes mixed together with no organization. For the first ten minutes or so of the movie, you zone out, squishing one of the bags in your hands distractedly, letting the beads flow like water between your fingers.

After a while, Smartypants lowers himself to the floor and swaps out the bag of beads for your cup of ice water. Cold beads of sweat trickle from the glass down your fingers and you take a few long, deep drinks. It does feel better. Smartypants leans his cheek against your shoulder and murmurs, “You’ve got to drink at least six of those today, okay? More if you can handle it. Gotta piss all the drugs out.”

“I know,” you mumble.

Funshine has finally gotten all the tangles out and is just running the brush through your hair now. “Promise me you’ll tell us if you get too hot and need a cold shower, okay?” she says.

You make a small sound of affirmation.

“In words,” Smartypants laughs. His cheek is still on your shoulder, his chin against your skin, a little prickly from the new hair starting to grow in. He didn’t even shave before they came over? They must have been in a rush. The facial hair is a huge dysphoria thing for him.

“If you want to borrow my razor, you can,” you offer quietly.

“Thank you,” he whispers back. “I might.”

“You two keeping secrets?” Funshine teases.

“Ma~aybe,” Smartypants laughs.

“Thanks for coming over at such short notice,” you interrupt. Sure, you could say it later, but it’s so important they know. Why not now?

“Welcome,” Funshine says. She bops her nose on the top of your head, but she abides by your ‘no kissing anywhere’ rule.

“I hope I’m not interrupting any plans?”

Quiet for a few moments.

“Guys?”

“It’s okay,” Smartypants says. “We were going to go to a town hall meeting, but there will be others. You’re more important.” He switches the bag of beads in your hands for the cup of water again. “Drink up. You’re not drinking enough until you have to pee constantly.”

Soon your morning niacin dose starts to really kick you in the stomach. It lurches with so much power for a moment you’re certain you’re going to throw all your organs up with it, but with some slow sips of water, it settles. You forgot to eat with it so Smartypants stuffs you full of snacks while Funshine pulls together food from your kitchen, along with more ice water. Even though she isn’t gone long, you’ve pretty much gorged yourself on sugar and salt by the time she comes back with some hummus and crackers. She pats you on the head and asks,

“Smarty, are you okay where you are? Do you want back on the couch or anything? I’m going to make pancakes.”

Smartypants, who is still leaning against your shoulder, stealing the occasional cracker off your plate, grins and says, “I’m good if Jen’s good.”

You stuff a handful of crackers and hummus into your face and give them both a messy thumbs up.

The movie is almost over when Funshine comes back with coffee and pancakes with strawberry jam. You prefer syrup, but they’re much easier to eat in the living room this way. And strawberry anything is delicious.

Funshine puts everything down on the coffee table and drags it closer to the couch so Smartypants doesn’t have to crawl over to eat, then switches the movie out for one of your old favorites, The Last Unicorn.

“Did you bring all my favorite movies?” you ask around a mouthful of pancake.

“I did!” she grins. “Except Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer. That one was _impossible_ to find.”

You wave away her concern with jam and hummus stained fingers. Normally you’d be appalled at yourself for being such a slob, but right now all you want to do is eat, so you can’t bring yourself to care. She laughs at you and hands you a paper towel.

“Clean yourself off, you animal.”

When all the food is gone and everyone is sipping at their coffee, Smartypants puts a few clean paper towels on the carpeted floor and dumps out some beads and string. You make simple one and two string kandy, cuffs, complex shapes like flowers. You make Kylie a blue and yellow flower daisy keychain because he can’t wear bracelets at work, and you make him a bracelet anyway, with neon green and electric blue pony beads and white stars. Even if he won’t wear it, maybe he can put it somewhere and think of you.

Smartypants, Funshine, and you make kandy for each other, extras to trade for the next time you go to a rave or a party, random ones to give to the little kids who always stop and stare and light up when they get to have one, too.

Aside from having to pause the movies to pee every five minutes, it’s not so bad once you have some food in your stomach.

At least, not until Funshine stops brushing your hair, and Smartypants cuddles closer into your side, and the room temperature hits whatever Kylie set it to so the heat turns on.

And then your whole body burns and aches and sweats, and Smartypants moves away from you and he doesn’t say anything but you see him wipe your sweat off his face with the back of his wrist.

“Funshine?” you ask weakly.

She took her hoodie off long ago, now in just a tank top and jeans, because she knows how warm Kylie likes the apartment. Smartypants worms out of his jacket, too. He’s not binding today, and might not even be wearing a bra.

They really were in a hurry to get here, weren’t they?

“What’s up, Jen-jen?” Funshine asks. She crawls closer and leans over your shoulder, head upside down. She stays only for a moment before she jerks up and says, “Shit, you’re burning up. You need to get in a cold bath or shower or something. Do you feel up to doing that alone? I feel like Kylie would be pissed if I saw you naked.”

“I can do it,” you mutter. “Just wait outside the door for me?”

You don’t even realize you’ve stepped into the shower with all your clothes on until you try to soap yourself down and end up lathering them instead. Soap still in hand, you look down at your soaked clothes, clinging to you like lichen and you’ve got to get them off now, you can’t do this, you can’t, you can’t --

You rip off your shirt with a heavy sob and the rest of your clothes follow soon after, a dripping, sopping pile on the floor beside the bathmat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize you’ll have to clean it all up but that’s later; right now your skin is burning and it feels like if you let anything warmer than the ice cold water on your skin touches it, it will blister and fall off.

Another sob rips out of your throat, and Funshine gently knocks on the door.

“Jen-jen? Baby, are you okay?”

You nod, as if she can see you.

“Jen-jen? Did you lock the door?”

The knob rattles, but you did, so she can’t get in.

“Jen,” she shouts. “If you don’t answer me I _will_ kick this fucking door down! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” you shout. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Her voice is a little softer. “Okay.”

You stand there in the ice cold water until you start to shiver. Until your teeth chatter. Until you’re covered in goosebumps. Then and only then do you climb out of the shower and dry yourself down, wrap a towel around your waist, and leave the bathroom. Funshine’s eyes widen and she smirks and opens her mouth, but you shake your head.

“Not right now. Please.”

She closes her mouth again, and you go into the bedroom to change.

Another a-shirt and another pair of basketball shorts, this pair probably Kylie’s because they’re a little looser. You stumble out to the couch and collapse on it behind Smartypants, and Funshine sits beside him, and you rest your hand on his shoulder and both of them put theirs on top of it.

“I love you both,” you mutter, and then you slip into sleep.

 

Except for the TV playing the first Ninja Turtles movie, the room is dark when you wake again. The front door is open and you’re alone. No Funshine, no Smartypants, not even his wheelchair is in the room, and that’s when you start to panic. But then heavy, familiar footsteps enter the doorway, and you relax again when the door clicks closed.

Kylie turns the TV off. He doesn’t turn off the DVD player. A bad habit of his he never bothered trying to break, and it doesn’t bother you, so you haven’t been much help. You finally stir, and Kylie whispers, “Are you awake?”

“Kind of,” you answer. “I should probably stay awake for a while. My drug test is tomorrow. I was going to go in the afternoon, then I have work later that night.”

The unspoken _maybe_ hangs heavy in the air.

“I am sorry,” Kylie says. He worms his way onto the couch so your head is in his lap. You turn and bury your face in his stomach. His undershirt smells like sweat and deodorant and kitchen grease, and it’s perfect, because it’s Kylie. “I can turn the movie back on. I should have asked. I thought you were sleeping.”

“It’s okay. I’d rather sit with you.”

Even in the dark room, you can see the tug of the muscle in Kylie’s cheek when he smiles. The blinds aren’t open, but cracked, and a little bit of the light outside seeps in. Just enough to make out his shape, the brightness of the white of his t-shirt against the dark brown of the secondhand couch, the apron still slung over his shoulder.

“I need to take a shower,” he says. He awkwardly maneuvers himself so he can kiss you, and you lean up to meet him halfway. “I am disgusting. Will you be all right until I am done? It will be quick, maybe five minutes? Just enough to scrub myself off.”

You nod, but don’t let go of him.

“Jen.” The smile in his voice washes over you in a calm, happy wave.

“Oka~ay,” you fake-whine. He musses your hair and you let him up, heading to the kitchen so you can take your next dose. You pop the pills all at once with a huge gulp of water, almost choke, and follow it up with another drink. You’re getting weak. You used to be able to swallow handfuls of pills at a time.

 

When Kylie gets out of the shower, you’re in the bedroom screwing around on your phone, trying to find a game interesting enough to distract you while Kylie sleeps. He plops into bed beside you, still with only a towel around his waist. Any other day you’d be flirting up a storm, but right now you just feel like shit and all you want is for him to touch your hair and give you a hug.

You lean against Kylie’s shoulder, even though it’s still damp, and he absently plays with your hair as you continue to try to find something on your phone that can hold your attention. For a long time, you sit in quiet, until many minutes of silence later, Kylie says,

“Jen?”

“Hm?” You don’t look up from your phone.

“When I was helping Funshine and Smartypants down to their car… I mean.” He pauses and sighs, heavy, like someone’s just dropped a brick on his chest. “Something Funshine said…” He pauses again. Finally, he asks, “Are you ever going to quit?”

Your thumbs are still on your phone screen. The timer keeps counting down on your game, and even though you’re looking at it, you don’t see it. All you can see is the hope and fear in Kylie’s voice, as if you’re looking at his face and not your phone.

“Do you want the right answer or the honest one?” you finally reply.

Kylie’s shoulder lifts slightly as he swallows. He worms himself out from under you so he can turn the overhead light off.

“Goodnight, Jen.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next day is exactly as you expect it to be. You take your morning dosage of niacin and 5-HTP, go downtown to do your stupid drug test, get lost, arrive an hour late, finally get home, and go back to sleep. On the off chance you pass your test, you need to have your sleep schedule on track.

Twenty-four hours pass. Forty-eight. Seventy-two.

You’re not getting that job. You’d have heard back Monday by the latest, and almost a week has passed with no call and no work. You spend most of your time sleeping when Kylie is home, because you can’t face him. You can’t bring yourself to tell him you failed after everything you put yourself through, after you tried so hard, after you told him you’re probably never going to quit for good, if not in so many words. He’ll hate you.

And why shouldn’t he? You’re a failure.

When your phone rings, you don’t hear it at first. You think it might be your dream. But then you realize, you’re trying to answer a landline, and landlines don’t play music, and then you’re fumbling your phone and you manage to answer it but you drop it and shout, “Hang on! Sorry!”

Once you have it off the ground and up to your ear, you ask, “Hello?” You’re wide awake after that little debacle, so there’s no exhausted slur. But if this is some asshole spam caller you’re going to be _pissed_.

“Atreyu, hi,” a familiar voice says. “It’s me, James, the night manager.”

You bite your lip. Your nose flares. You hold your breath until you get dizzy, and it’s only when he says, “Hello?” do you realize he wants an acknowledgement.

“Yeah, uh, hi,” you finally manage, a little weakly. “What’s going on?”

But you know what’s going on. It’s been almost a week and only now are you finally hearing back from your boss.

“You know your test came back dirty, right?” James asks. There’s no accusation. Hell, maybe he even smokes on his days off. But he’s not the one whose job is on the line right now.

“Did it?” you manage weakly.

“Yeah. Like. _Really_ dirty.”

“Oh.” A pause. “So I don’t get the --”

“No. Sorry, Atreyu. If it were up to me, we’d keep you, because you never let it interfere with your work. But rules are rules. Don’t bother reapplying. You won’t get a callback.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up.

You sit there, head lowered and phone in hand, legs crossed until your feet start to go pins and needles. The screen eventually goes black. You press the power button to bring the screen back, unlock it, and go into one of your music apps. Which one? Doesn’t matter. Internet radio? Sure. Why not.

You pick a station at random. Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not something you hate. Even once the music starts, you sit there silently, cradling your phone, feet going numb, waiting, waiting, for what, you don’t know. A call back. An ‘oops, your results got mixed up with someone else’s, want a job?’

A call from Funshine. A text from Kylie. But no, nobody calls or texts, because you’re useless, and you can’t even pass a drug test.

The music plays, the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. The heat is off, for now, as it goes when it reaches 70 degrees. The blinds are open and it’s dark outside. What time is it? You could check your phone, but you’d have to leave fullscreen for that, and you don’t want to. You don’t want to do anything.

Eventually. Eventually! Hours and hours or maybe just minutes later, who knows, who cares, the door creaks open. A pair of soft thunks echo through the apartment when Kylie kicks off his work boots. The bedroom door is open, and he peeks in, letting out a soft noise of surprise when he sees you sitting, awake, with your phone instead of asleep while the music plays like you have been.

“Jen?” he whispers, just a little louder than your music. “Are you awake?”

As if you might have fallen asleep there, sitting up, curled in over your phone.

“Yeah,” you whisper. You turn the music off. Even with his ears in it can be hard for him to differentiate between music and talking, sometimes, and he’s just come home from yet another double. He shouldn’t have to deal with any more frustration than absolutely necessary.

“You didn’t get the job.” It’s a statement. He doesn’t have to ask.

You shake your head. He turns the light on and you flinch at the sudden brightness, blinking a few times to adjust. But you still don’t look up.

The bed sinks beside you when Kylie sits down. He puts his hand on the back of your neck and gently rests his forehead against the top of your bowed head.

“We thought this might happen, right?” he says softly.

“I just hoped…”

A long, long pause.

“That you would pass? Me, too.”

“No, that…” You swallow a sob and force the words out. “That I might finally do something right.”

“We are always hiring busboys,” Kylie says. “No drug test. A lot of the little independent shops do not test, either. It is mostly big box stores and chains.”

More silence.

“It is just a thought.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. He gently squeezes the nape of your neck. His short, rough nails and callused fingers send a shiver of comfort and familiarity down your spine. “Maybe I can find something on Craigslist,” you finally continue. “I’m good at moving boxes.”

“I do not know,” Kylie says. He pokes your skinny ribs and you squeak at the tickle. “You are a little stringy. They may not believe you.”

You look up at him with a furrowed brow and a pout, but it softens into the barest of smiles when you see the humor on his face. You flex an arm and laugh, “Then I’ll just have to show ‘em these guns!”

Kylie laughs and wraps his arms around yours, tugging you close and kissing your shoulder.

“You can look around online tonight while I sleep,” he says. But then he warns, “But you might not be able to keep your night owl hours. You might have to get a day job.”

“I know,” you sigh. A pause. “I’ll fix up my resume tonight and start looking in earnest once you’ve looked it over in the morning.”

“All right. Maybe one version for customer service and one for, as you so eloquently put it, ‘moving boxes,’” Kylie grins.

You grin back. “Someone’s got to do it.”

Kylie’s smile softens. There’s something in his eyes you can’t place, but maybe not, because it’s only a moment before everything is back to normal again.

“I will let you work on that,” he says. He rolls over and gropes around under the bed until he comes back up with his laptop. “Here.” He plops it in your lap. “I just want to unwind and listen to music for a while. I will connect my Bluetooth to my ears so it does not distract you.”

“It’s okay, it won’t --”

Kylie gives you a Look. You smile sheepishly.

“Okay, it probably will.”

Kylie nods and stands, puttering around the room to change into some sleep clothes and gather together his things for the night, and you open the laptop and get started.

 

God why are resumes so _boring_? You’ve been working at this thing for an hour trying to figure out how to look hireable, because you really, really aren’t. Let’s see. What can you do?

You can work a computer. Mac or PC. You can google any program you don’t know how to use or problem you can’t solve and find a walkthrough for it.

_Advanced computer skills for Mac and PC/Windows. Adept at most common programs needed for an office setting. Types_

You pause and look up average typing speeds. About forty. You don’t want to go too high, but you don’t want to look like everyone else. Maybe the low end of professional.

_Types 55-60 WPM._

Oh! Okay. You perk up a little and smile. So a resume is just bullshitting to make yourself look good. You can do that!

You make it into a game to keep yourself occupied. Worked cash register in fast food? _Accurately and quickly performed high volume cash flow and transactions for a Fortune 500 company_.

Set floor designs in retail overnight? _Oversaw product placement and floor design during regular seasonal changes_. Meh, that one could use some work. You’ll come back to it.

And… sometimes moving boxes is just moving boxes. Regularly lifted product weighing up to 150 lbs? How much does Smartypants weigh? You can carry him. No more than 120, probably, though, right? Dude’s skinny as you and even shorter. You can give Funshine a piggyback ride. She’s probably about 150.

You’ll just go with 150. Nobody can ask you to carry more than that alone, anyway. It’s a rule or something. You think. They’ll have, like, a cart or something, probably.

After you have a rough draft for each resume done, you google successful resumes and cover letters, do some editing, do some writing. Writing was never your strong point, but you used to read a lot back when you were regularly medicated, and you try to pull some good words and phrases from the old stories half-buried in your memory. Your back and neck are a little kinked up from leaning so close to the laptop, but if you move it’ll break the hyperfocus you were lucky enough to find in that fucked up head of yours, and the only way you’ll get it back is a handful of Adderall. Even then, you can’t guarantee _what_ you’ll get fixated on. It could be the number of fibers in the carpet or stitches in the quilt, for all you know.

But then, while you’re on Wikipedia looking up database normalization, you click on one of the links, and…

 

_Raymond F Boyce_

_San Jose, California_

_unincorporated communities_

_local government in Australia_

 

and so on, and so on, and so on…

And then the sun’s coming up, slowly but surely, peeking in through the blinds and falling over Kylie’s sleeping form. It breaks your concentration on the article you’re currently reading and you look up at the window, as if it’s done this on purpose, just to upset you. You turn back to the laptop and look at your resumes and cover letters. Where were you, again?

One cover letter reads only “Dear ___;” and the other just has a filename. You still only have a rough draft of each resume. All the stupid phrasing you couldn’t figure out how to fix is still there. Everything is out of order and incoherent.

With a high pitched groan, you drop your head into your hands. God, why can’t you ever just sit down and get shit done? No wonder Kylie is so disappointed in you all the time. You can’t even finish a single resume, and you had eight hours!

Later, after Kylie double checks to make sure all your jobs are there, maybe you can send it to Smartypants and have him fix it up. He’s good at writing and things like that. He made all those zines last year, and he writes short stories sometimes. You think he maybe even got one or two published in anthologies, but you can never remember, even though that should be important to you. It _is_ important to you. Your memory is just shit. You’ll have to ask him the title of the book, because if he did, you _must_ have a copy, whether you bought it or he gave it to you.

A glance at the corner of the laptop screen confirms it’s a little before eight. You look over at Kylie again, stomach down on the bed, arms curled around a pillow and mouth partway open. Every now and then he lets out a little huff that’s not quite a snore. You can’t help but smile at how _peaceful_ he looks. These days it seems he’s always stressed out and frustrated at something or another.

Hopefully it’s not because of you, you think, but it probably is.

The time hits 8:15 and Kylie’s watch starts to vibrate, softly at first, but a little harder with each passing moment until he snorts and his eyes flutter open. He whacks at his wrist, half asleep, and when that doesn’t make it stop, he realizes it’s his alarm, and he sits up and presses the button on the side to turn it off. You gently play your fingers through the shaggy hair on the nape of his neck, and when he turns to you, you sign, “Good morning.”

He smiles sleepily and nods. He shakes his head and pushes his hair out of his eyes, then signs back, “Could you start coffee?”

You nod. He signs something halfway between “Thank you,” and blowing you a kiss. It’s probably just because he’s sleepy. But you’ll take the kiss, too.

When you come back into the bedroom, his ears are in and he’s sitting with the laptop, frowning at the screen as he scrolls through something.

“This is all you managed to do?” he asks softly, as if hoping the volume of his voice will make you feel less bad.

You hug yourself with one arm, gripping the opposite one a little too hard. Your nails dig into the sensitive skin. You might need to trim them soon, even though that makes it harder to paint them.

“Yeah.” You make sure not to mumble, to look at him when you say it, even though it hurts. You don’t want to have to repeat yourself.

Kylie sighs and rubs at his forehead. He bites his lip.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks. “I tried. I really, really did. But I lost my concentration and got distracted and… and I didn’t want to take the Adderall because it was getting so late. Or early. Or whatever. And I need to sleep in a few hours.”

“You know it is okay to take it, right?” Kylie says gently, turning toward you. “I will not be angry. You have ADHD. It is not your fault you cannot see a doctor to write you a prescription. But if it is going to work, you have to use it.”

“I know, I know, I --“

You stop abruptly when Kylie sighs again. He puts the laptop on his side table and pats your spot of the bed. You sit.

“I believe you when you say you are trying, Jen,” he says. “But you have to try harder. I will only be able to float us for a month. You have to find at least part time work before then or we will lose the apartment.”

You nod, afraid your voice will crack again when you speak.

“I was going to ask Smarty if he’d be willing to look everything over, after I take a nap and wake up again. He’s good at writing and stuff. He can make it better.”

Kylie’s brow furrows and his mouth just barely turns down, as if he’s fighting with himself. Finally, “Okay,” he says. “But through email. I do not want them over here when I am not home, now that you are well again. Okay?”

“Whatever you want. Promise. And if something comes up, I’ll ask first.”

Sometimes it bothers you that Kylie doesn’t trust you or your friends enough to have them over when you don’t actively need care. Would he be like this if you had any other friends? Or is it just because of Funshine and her flirting? Smartypants has never done anything wrong. But then, he can’t get over here on his own. Funshine would have to drive.

“I just thought…” you start. You pause.

“Thought what?” Kylie asks.

“I thought Smarty could help me make it better,” you repeat weakly. “So I’d be more likely to get a call back. You know? I’m not good at this stuff, and you haven’t had to job search in over a year, but he like… back when Mouse was still here, Smarty would always do our resumes, because he’s really good at it. He did the one that got me my last job. That’s all.”

Kylie sighs, but his shoulders loosen and he smiles. You’re not sure what that smile says. It’s not a normal Kylie smile. It’s not happy. It makes you nervous. But something about it changes back to a real Kylie smile, if a little exasperated.

“I understand,” Kylie says. “I am sorry. I do not mind that he is your friend. I want you to know that. It is just…”

“Funshine,” you murmur.

He nods.

“You know I would never cheat on you,” you suddenly blurt.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, it’s a slow, “Of course, Jen. I trust you.” As if he’s not sure how the words feel on his tongue.

A brief but sharp pain stabs you through the chest at his unsureness. But maybe you do deserve it. He’s said over and over he doesn’t like it when you hang out with Funshine, even though he’s never actively tried to stop you. Maybe if you were a better boyfriend you’d listen.

But… Funshine and Smarty are your best friends. Your only friends outside of Kylie.

“I’ll go see if the coffee’s done,” you say softly. “Made the usual?”

Kylie’s smile turns a little more real. “Thank you.”

You smile weakly and head back out into the kitchen.

The coffee’s done and the kettle you’d also put on is whistling, so you prepare Kylie’s coffee, turn off the stove, and pour yourself a mug of water so you can make some tea. Chamomile never did anything for your sleep, but it’s tasty, so, you’ll take it. You’ll hit a blunt later to help you doze off. After Kylie leaves, so the smoke doesn’t get in his clothes.

When you return with the drinks, Kylie is tip-tapping away at the laptop. You put your mug on your bedside table and wait until he’s done to hand him his.

You stand there for maybe five minutes without acknowledgement before you clear your throat and say, “I brought your coffee. I hope it hasn’t gotten cold.”

Kylie looks up from the laptop, eyes wide, as if he hadn’t expected you to be back so soon. He smiles brightly as you had him the mug and he takes a sip.

“Have you thought about working in a coffee shop? Or a bakery? As a barista or cashier? There is a cupcake bakery opening up downtown, not too far off… oh, I cannot remember which right now. But one of the red line stops in the loop. I was trying to find it in case you were interested.”

“Do they drug test? Because I seriously can’t function without my Adderall.”

“I do not know. That is what I was trying to find. It looks like they are part of a local chain with a handful of locations. Let me try something.”

Kylie puts his coffee to the side and does some more googling. After a few minutes, he lights up and turns the laptop to face you.

“They do not drug test!” he exclaims. “And I found a page of people who have been hired there at one point or another and who say how to get through the interview process and get your resume picked up.”

“Oh!” Your eyes light up, too, and you lean forward, squinting at the computer screen. But everything is blurry and your head hurts and you’re just so… simultaneously buzzed and tired, so you say, “Can you bookmark that for me, and when I wake up I can read through it and write a resume for that specifically? I don’t mind travelling. It took so long to get to and from my last job. I just listen to music and I’m fine.”

Kylie gives you a level, if slightly nervous look. “You would have to work mornings or afternoons. They close at 8:00. So you would not be able to work overnights.”

You wilt a little, but then you shrug and offer a lopsided smile. “Maybe someday.”

Kylie bookmarks the page and closes the laptop, moving it to the side so he can focus on his coffee. It’s lukewarm now, so he drains it quickly, then kisses your cheek and says, “I have to start getting ready.”

You wilt.

“A double?” you ask.

He smiles sadly and nods.

A moment of quiet.

“Thank you,” you finally blurt. “For. For working so hard all the time for us. I know you think I don’t appreciate it, but I do. I really, really do.”

Kylie leans his head on your shoulder and you lean your cheek against the crown of his head.

“Thank you, Jen,” he says.


	7. Chapter 7

Smartypants agrees to help you with your resumes. He doesn’t have much going on right now, he says, so he can help you make sure each one caters to the job. He can teach you how to do that, he says.

You’re so, so grateful.

But by the time you get your resume sent to the cupcake place, they’ve already finished hiring. None of the retail shops want help; they’re full up with holiday part timers. Even the used bookshops and cafés are full up. Even Kylie’s job, who’s always hiring busboys, just did a bunch of hiring and doesn’t need help. Nobody is hiring. Nobody wants you.

You pick up odd jobs off Craigslist, but they’re almost always just one-time things -- someone needs help moving, or wants to set up Christmas lights for their family and can’t use a ladder, or whatever. It brings in small amounts of money, but nothing like a job would.

You try so hard to budget what little money you have. But everything is wrong all the time. Even with the Adderall, you can barely think, and it takes everything in you to drag yourself out of bed every morning. Even weed doesn’t help much. It helps you sleep, sure. But you’re still tired and depressed as fuck in the morning.

Then, early one morning, while Kylie is still asleep, your phone rings. You fumble awake and look at the call ID to see whether you’ll need to yell or not.

It’s Funshine.

You swipe up. “Funshine?”

“Smarty,” a slightly more androgynous voice says.

“Smarty?” you repeat dumbly. “Why are you calling so early? Why are you using Funshine’s phone? What --”

“There was a fire at our apartment complex,” Smartypants says.

“Are you--!?”

“We’re both fine,” he assures you. “It was a few doors down. But our place is fucked with smoke and water damage. We salvaged what we could, but most of our electronics were pretty fucked up. My phone is done with.”

“Do you need a place to stay?” You offer without even thinking of Kylie’s opinion. Funshine and Smartypants are your best friends, and Kylie would be okay with them crashing in the living room a few days under these circumstances, as long as there are no club drugs.

“That’s… why we’re calling, actually,” Smartypants says hesitantly. “Look, I know Kylie doesn’t like us, but we just need a place to stay one night while my family gets the living room set up for us, and we don’t have the money even for a cheap motel. Is it --”

“You can take our couch,” you offer immediately. “Kylie will understand.”

He breathes a sigh of relief so heavy you can hear the change in tone even through the phone. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Funshine’s voice in the background, then Smartypants, muffled: “Yeah, we can stay. For the one night. Yeah.” A little louder. “I don’t want you and Kylie to get in a fight over this, so if he prefers, we won’t come over until we’re ready to go to sleep and we’ll be out first thing in the morning.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “This is different. It’s not like we stayed out too late partying or something. Your apartment building caught on fire! And it wasn’t your fault.”

You can almost hear Smartypants’s smile in his voice. “Thank you, Jen. I mean that.”

You don’t talk much longer, because while you and Smartypants can go for hours under the stars or a string of fairy lights alike, you’re both crap on the phone. So he says he and Funshine will be by at nine and you warn them that Kylie won’t be home until eleven or so, so if they aren’t asleep by then that’s bedtime so the light doesn’t bother Kylie.

And you end the call.

After a pause, you mutter to yourself, “Well, shit,” because now you have to ask Kylie if what you just offered was okay. And you know he’ll say yes because that’s the kind of person he is, but… he’s going to feel like you gave him no other choice.

You glance over at where he’s sleeping. His face is turned toward you, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled up. He huffs softly and twists in the sheets. Is he having a nightmare?

“Kylie?” you ask, even though it’s stupid because he can’t hear you. You gently take his shoulder and shake a little. He whines and bats at your hand, then suddenly shoots up with a gasp, shoulders heaving and eyes wide. You jump back with a startled snort and he turns toward you when your hand moves away from his arm.

“Are you okay?” you sign. “You looked like you were having a bad dream.”

He slowly starts to nod, then seems to think better of it and grabs at the fingers of his left hand. He relaxes again.

“I dreamed we were in a rush to prepare dinner service for five hundred,” he finally signs. “To give you an idea of what that means, we do maybe a hundred fifty a night, including turnover. I was prepping asparagus and I chopped off two of my fingers. The front of house manager started to scream at me and she just smashed my hand against the flattop to cauterize it and told me to keep going. I was crying because I was afraid I could not sign anymore.”

Your heart breaks. Kylie’s under so much stress he’s having nightmares about work, and you’re about to add to it. You hug him close and gently pet the back of his neck, careful to avoid his ears. He tenses anyway, and you seem to be hurting more than helping even though he hugs you back, so you let go.

“Let me get my ears,” he signs. You nod and look away so he can. It seems invasive to look at him while he’s putting them in or fixing them, even though he’s never said he feels that way. Maybe you’re just projecting because that’s how you think you would feel.

But he kisses the back of your head to let you know he’s ready, and it makes you smile.

“Do you want one of my Xanax?” you offer. He purses his lips and furrows his brow.

“Since when do you have Xanax?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh! No, no, I didn’t buy it recently. It’s like. Two years old. I only take it when the weed isn’t enough to help me get to sleep.”

Kylie’s face relaxes and he finally smiles, for the first time this morning.

“Ah.” A pause. “I think I would prefer weed. I know how it will affect me, and I do have a shift later. Thank god not another double. Just a regular eight.”

You lean forward and cup his cheeks in your hands. You kiss his nose, letting him initiate the mouth kiss if he wants it. He does.

You share a slow, gentle kiss, the first real not just a hello-goodbye peck, in what feels like ages. Oh, god, you _missed_ this.

The two of you end up in a jumble on the bed, sharing exploratory kisses and getting to know each other again after what feels like months. Neither of you try to push it past making out, and maybe that’s for the best right now -- you don’t want to have to break the news about Smartypants and Funshine during afterglow.

Kylie slowly pulls away, hooking your hair back behind your ear. The split ends are getting out of control. You always put it up for job interviews, because you can’t afford to pay someone to do it right now. But once you have the money, you have _got_ to get it trimmed.

He kisses your nose and pulls back.

“Smoke?” he signs. He never says it aloud for some reason.

You smile and nod. “I have to get to sleep soon.”

He frowns. “Up all night again?”

“Yeah. I can’t sleep unless I smoke and I don’t want to go even more into debt with Funshine, and _especially_ not Ashley. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ashley has mob connections. She’s a scary lady. And I feel bad asking you every night.”

Kylie smiles, soft and a little exasperated -- probably at your mention of Funshine -- and asks, “The Xanax does not do it?”

Your mouth twists and you shake your head. “It chills me out, like, if the ADHD shit gets to be too much but I can’t take my Adderall for whatever reason, but doesn’t help me sleep.”

He ruffles your hair and says, “Close the door and light some incense. Your pick.”

You perk up and ask, “That glittery cream one okay? It smells like cookies.”

He laughs. “That is fine.”

You pull two sticks out of the second, unlocked drawer in your nightstand along with a lighter and two incense holders. Kylie rolls the joint while you clear out the room with vanilla cookie scented smoke. He lights it, takes a drag, passes it to you.

“I mixed it with some tobacco. I hope that is okay. I like the taste better.”

“No, yeah, that’s fine,” you say. As long as it gets you high, you don’t give a shit what he mixes it with.

About halfway through the joint, you’re just relaxed and stupid enough to break the news.

“Funshine and Smarty’s place had a fire.”

Kylie whirls toward you, choking on smoke. “What!?”

“Not their unit!” you add quickly. “A few doors down. But their place is unlivable from smoke and water damage. They’re staying with Smarty’s family starting tomorrow, but… they need to clear out some stuff first to make room. I told them they could stay the night here tonight?”

Kylie’s face pinches in and he takes another slow, long drag off the joint. “I guess they are extenuating circumstances. It is not like last time.”

“Right?” you say, trying to be encouraging. “That’s what I thought. I know you don’t like them but we can’t just let them sleep on the street, you know?”

Kylie sighs, heavy. “I guess,” he says. His voice is hesitant, but you decide to barrel over that and hope for the best.

“Thank you. For understanding,” you say. “Smarty said they’ll be in and out. You won’t even notice they’ve come and gone.”

Kylie snorts and hands you the joint. “We will see.”

You take a drag and don’t speak. You know your friends, and, well. Fair’s fair.

 

Kylie rolls you another joint to get through as quickly or slowly as you need for the rest of the day, then has to get dressed and shoot out the door because he spent all morning smoking pot with you in bed. Thank god he’s a functional stoner. He doesn’t giggle, he doesn’t get the munchies, he just gets simultaneously really chill and focused. And god, he could use that at that hellhole of a restaurant.

You end up getting through half the joint and putting it out to save the rest for later, and you attempt to go to bed with marginal success. You’re up and down all day, and when you wake up for good around six your brain and body are buzzing like you’ve gone on a three-week drug binge.

Smartypants and Funshine aren’t due for three hours. You take a shower, and you use Kylie’s soap and shampoo and everything, because maybe it will calm you down, or at least comfort you somewhat. You don’t take an Adderall, because you need to save it for your odd jobs, but you pop three Xanax in the hopes it’ll calm your trembling hands and get that buzzing in your brain to go away.

Then you text Funshine to say, _Hey, you don’t have to wait til 9 since Kylie’s gone anyway, if you don’t have anywhere to go. You can come over whenever_.

And do your best to job search while smoking the last half of your joint.

You are mostly unsuccessful, but you do find a local moving company that only works within the city of Chicago looking for help, and even though you can’t drive, you can carry boxes. You shoot them an email with your box-lifting resume and don’t say anything about your lack of a driver’s license.

Other than that, it’s music and cat memes all the way, baby.

Funshine doesn’t text back, but about forty-five minutes later, a knock comes at the door. By now, the Xanax has kicked in with a _vengeance_ , and it sounds like it’s coming through cotton candy, slow and sticky. But you definitely hear it, and even though you nearly fall flat on your nose a few times and have to use the wall to walk yourself there, you eventually get to the door, and open it to see Funshine standing there with a sad smile. Even when everything is shit, she still smiles. You’ve always loved that about her.

“I just wanted you to open the door before I brought Smarty up. Come get his chair?”

You squint at her and slur, “I dun’ think thas a good idea.”

She squints back at you and purses her lips, looking at your narrowed eyes. Then, just as suddenly as her smile faded, it returns, brighter this time, and she boops your nose and says, “Whatever you’re on, I could really use some once we get settled in.”

After Funshine takes the two trips to get Smartypants and his chair up the stairs, she closes and locks the door behind her. You and Smartypants sit beside each other on the couch, your head on his shoulder and his hand buried in your hair. It’s so nice. Smartypants doesn’t touch you like this often, but he has the softest, most gentle hands when he does. Funshine plops down on your other side and leans her head on your arm.

“So, what has our dear Jen-jen so fucked up he can’t bring Smarty’s chair up the stairs? And also, is he sharing?”

A slow, languid smile spreads across your face, and you gently bump your shoulder up into her temple. “Xanax,” you sing-song.

Funshine snorts. “Just Xanax? How much did you take, you lightweight?”

You blow a raspberry and Smartypants laughs. You nuzzle into his hoodie sleeve, soft and worn and, unfortunately, smelling of kitchen smoke.

You hold up three fingers.

“Bars?” Funshine asks. You nod. Her eyebrows hike up so high they hide behind her hairline.

“Okay,” she says. “Fair, then.”

“You think you could send one my way?” It’s the first Smartypants has spoken. You tilt your head slightly, just able to get a glance at his jaw. His voice is soft and strained.

“’Course!” you say softly, but enthusiastically. “How many times’ve you and Funshine smoked me out for free? The only thing I dun share’s my Adderall because I actually need thatta function.” You pat his knee. Even though you know he can’t feel it, he can see the gesture, and that’s just as important.

Funshine jostles you gently from the other side. “One for me, too, if you’ve got it? The past twenty-four hours have been so. Goddamn. Stressful.”

“Yeah!”

You use their knees to push yourself up. You teeter a moment, but once you find your feet, you stumble back to the bedroom.

“Get yourself some water if you want!” you call over your shoulder.

Your hands are heavy and your fingers feel thicker than usual, so it takes some time to get the tiny little drug baggies open, but once you do and you have the pills and you distribute them and sit down, you pat both their knees again and say, “So wha’ th’fuck happened?”

“I swear to god I’m going to kill the asshole who did this,” Funshine seethes, suddenly furious. You lean away instinctively, because in all the time you’ve known her, you’ve so rarely seen her angry, and it scares you. “Do you know what he did?”

You shake your head.

“He fell asleep while he had food in his goddamn toaster oven, and it caught fire. It spread to the unit between us, but not to ours, thank god. But of course, it got all fucked up from the water and smoke, and all of our electronics but my phone are toast, and so much of our stuff made of fabric is just ruined, our mattress is fucked up, and all the furniture is stained with water. So even once we get back there, we’re practically going to have to start from scratch.”

You twist your body away from Smartypants and lean against Funshine’s side, trying to offer comfort. “Did you have renters’ insurance?”

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah,” she says softly. “But no pictures. While we’re with Smarty’s family we’ll have to do our best to make up a list.”

“We have to be as specific as we can,” Smartypants says. “Otherwise they’ll just give us the money for the cheapest, lowest end item they can find.”

Funshine throws a hand in the air. “And I don’t know what brand half our shit was!”

“Try to salvage what you can and see what you can find. Or look up stuff online and just lie,” you say breezily.

A quiet, heavy pause. Funshine snorts.

“I love you, Jen-jen.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “I love you, too. And my bestest friend Smarty,” you say, twining your fingers with his. He lifts your hand and nudges your knuckles with his nose.

The three of you spend the afternoon watching movies, from your collection this time, although a lot of it is the same since you have such similar tastes.

Since the blinds are open, the light is off, and it gets dark so slowly you don’t realize night has fallen until the only light in the room is the TV.

And slowly, one by one, you fall asleep.

 

You jerk upright and nearly fall off the couch at the sudden bang. Half of your sleep-panicked mind tells you it was a gunshot, but no, it was deeper than that, and then your wild eyes just catch Kylie’s form turning the corner into the bedroom.

He slams that door, too.

Oh, shit. You and Smartypants and Funshine all fell asleep on each other, and Kylie’s mad at you now, and maybe he even thinks something happened even though all of you are still clothed down to your socks. Smartypants is even still wearing his hoodie. You jump up and Funshine and Smartypants fall against each other without you to hold them in place, banging their heads together, both waking with a curse. But all you care about is getting Kylie to open that door.

You knock. He doesn’t answer. You try the knob. Locked.

Fuck.

You knock again, louder. “Kylie?” you call. Nothing.

 _Fuck_ , he’s probably taken his ears out.

You rush back to the coffee table where you left your phone.

“Jen-jen?” Funshine asks blearily, rubbing at her head. She stands and turns the light on.

“What the fuck?” Smartypants whispers.

But you don’t answer. You send Kylie a text.

_Kylie please open the door I can explain I love you I promise nothing happened_

His message back is almost instantaneous. _Leave me alone. I’m going to bed._

You’re wide awake now, Xanax long faded from your system, though you could definitely use another one because you can’t breathe and your heart is pounding and your head spins like you might faint. Your hands shake as your thumbs race across the keyboard.

_Kylie we were just sleeping I promise we were all watching a movie and we were just tired and we dozed off I promise that’s all nothing else happened I swear_

But you don’t hear the buzz of his phone on his bedside table through the paper-thin walls. Did he turn it off vibrate? _Fuck_!

Now Funshine is next to you, peering over your shoulder to look at your phone while trying to seem like she isn’t. You turn off the screen and stuff it in your pocket.

“Jen-jen?” she asks again.

“Jen, what’s going on?” Smartypants asks.

Your throat is tight and wet and you don’t trust yourself to speak, so instead you let out a pained, gurgling laugh. You toss up your arms, careful not to smack Funshine in the head, and cry, “I guess we’re having a sleepover out here!” But it comes out in a waver, and it turns into a half choked back sob on the last word.

“Hey, hey,” Funshine says gently. She carefully takes your wrist and lowers your arm, then wraps hers around your shoulders. “Jen-jen, what did he do?”

“He’s _pissed_!” you half choke, half squeak. “I don’t know what he’s thinking because he took his ears out and locked the door and won’t answer his phone so like. I can’t even tell him I didn’t do anything! I think he’s mad because we all fell asleep in a pile on each other? But I don’t know for sure!”

At first you try to pull away from Funshine, just in case Kylie comes back out again, but the longer you ramble the harder it gets to stand, so you lean back against her chest and stomach and sink into her hug. She nudges her nose against the back of your head. She still doesn’t kiss you, even though you both know she wants to, and at this point, it probably couldn’t hurt you any more.

“Jen-jen, you need to start standing up for yourself. You’re an adult. You can be friends with whoever you want. This is Kylie’s problem, not yours.”

You whirl around on Funshine, even though she keeps you close, her arms wrapped around you. When you look up into her brown eyes you expect to see anger, but all you see is worry and sadness. “I’m a fuckup,” you say weakly. “We all know that. I can’t keep a job and I spend all my money on drugs because my life fucking sucks and it doesn’t matter what I have or who I’m with, it always will.” You pull away and curl into yourself. Funshine lets you go. Your hands are tight on your chest, like you’re trying to keep your heart from falling out.

“It’s just this… this _hole_ , here in my chest, and sometimes it’s not as noticeable and sometimes I can patch it up a little, but it never goes away, and it always gets worse again. And I thought he understood that, that that’s why…” But you can’t finish, you choke off your sentence with another sob. Funshine wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you back to the couch, where she sits you beside Smartypants. She sits on the floor in front of you both, crosslegged and looking up at you, maybe in case Kylie comes back out. Whatever the reason, you’re grateful she understands.

Smartypants leans his head on your shoulder and says, “You know one of my moms has depression, right?”

You sniffle and wipe your nose with the back of your arm. “Yeah? What does that have to do with this?”

He drops a hand on your knee and says, “Jen, what you just described is fucking _textbook_.”

You shrug the shoulder he isn’t leaning on. “Doesn’t matter,” you mumble. “Just like my ADHD. Got it and can’t treat it and it sucks.”

“C’mere,” Smartypants says. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap. You let out a surprised squeak. You always forget how strong he is, but then, his wheelchair is manual, and he has to get himself around. He pulls you into a tight, safe hug, and you bury your nose in his neck and hug him back. You don’t cry. You wish you could. Maybe you’d feel better. But instead you just sit there, in Smartypants’s lap, with his arms around you while you tremble and Funshine sits on the floor and watches you.

“Breathe,” Smartypants whispers, gently rubbing circles between your shoulders. That’s when you realize you _are_ holding your breath, aren’t you, and you suck in a new one with a gasp. Funshine sniffles from her spot on the floor and gently puts her hand on the top of your foot. She squeezes once.

“It’ll be fine,” she says softly. “You guys do this all the time.”

You scoot off Smartypants’s legs, but you stay close, your thigh and knee pressed tight to his. He slings his arm over your shoulders and gently weaves his fingers in the hair falling over your cheek.

“No, but like… he’s really mad this time. He hasn’t locked me out of the bedroom since I accidentally texted him instead of Ashley! Usually he yells at me or sighs at me and acts disappointed or… or something. But he doesn’t… he turned off his phone and took out his ears!” You bury your face in your hands and Smartypants drops his hand from the side of your head to your shoulder. A soft, hurt noise punches out of Funshine’s chest and she scrambles back up to the couch to sit next to you. She pulls you into a hug and you bury your face in her neck, because you just want to feel like someone cares about you right now.

This morning was so nice, too! With the cuddling and the kissing and the smoking, the only thing that could have made it better is if Kylie never had to leave for work. But he did and now he hates you.

“Jen-jen,” Funshine whispers, pulling you close. “Come here.” This time she finally does kiss you, on your forehead, and her lips are chapped and flaky with smeared lipstick and she’s probably left a smudge behind but you don’t care, because oh, you _need_ it right now.

“I know you just look at him as being in your way,” you mumble, “but I --”

“Jen,” Funshine says firmly. “I love you. That’s not a secret. I do want you to be with me and Smarty. But Kylie makes you happy in a way we can’t, and even though sometimes I’m not sure where you’ve drawn the line, I respect that. I love you and that means I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

Something about her softly spoken words breaks you a little. Your chest cracks open but the hole inside gets just a little smaller, just for now, and for a moment you don’t care if Kylie comes out and sees you with your face buried in your ex-girlfriend’s neck, because she _gets_ you in a way he doesn’t and maybe never will.

After a while, your breathing starts to even out and slow down a little. Funshine tightens her arms around your waist once, twice, then gently untangles herself from you and goes back to the TV to put on another movie. Unfortunately, your couch isn’t a pull-out, so one person can fit while the other two sleep on the floor.

The three of you end up on the floor with your legs stretched out and tangled while you lean back against the base of the couch. Every now and then you look at Smarty from the corners of your eyes, and he must not be paying close attention to the movie because he always glances back at you.

Finally, halfway through the Care Bears movie, he calls you out.

“Jen? What’s up? You okay?” He pauses, seems to reconsider how stupid a question that is, and rephrases. “Okay-ish?”

You bite your lower lip and look down. Smartypants jostles you from one side, Funshine from the other.

“You know you can tell us anything, yeah?” he reassures you.

“It’s just,” you start. Pause. Start over again. “If Kylie were to like…” You pause again. You don’t want to say it aloud, in case you fuck things up for yourself. “If something were to happen, could I stay with you?” you finally manage, shakily.

Funshine smiles and bumps her shoulder against yours. “You’re going to be fine. You guys fight all the time. Tomorrow we’ll leave and you’ll apologize and so will he and everything will go back to normal.”

Finally, for the first time since you woke up, you smile. Smartypants nudges you with his elbow.

“She’s right, you know. She knows these things.”

You sigh, heavy and relieved to hear it aloud. You’re just nervous because you can’t have the conversation right now and get it over with. You make grabby hands at your phone on the coffee table, which you’ve moved over and sits beside Funshine, and she hands it over.

_I love you. I’m sorry. We’ll figure things out tomorrow after they leave, okay?_


	8. Chapter 8

You wake up the next morning with your head on Smartypants’s stomach and Funshine’s head on yours, in a weird Z shape on the floor. All the pillows were in the bedroom, and the couch cushions are too big, so you had to make due.

You gently maneuver Funshine’s head into your lap, then wiggle out from underneath her and pull off your hoodie to fold up and use as a pillow for her. She curls into herself and buries her nose in it.

The door to the bedroom is closed. You knock quietly, so as not to wake Funshine and Smartypants, because it doesn’t matter how loud you are, if Kylie’s ears aren’t in, he won’t hear you.

No answer.

You try the door. Unlocked.

You peek inside. The bed is perfectly made. The room is spotless. Kylie is nowhere to be seen.

When you go back into the living room, you’re as quiet as you know how to be, but it still feels like your breaths and footfalls are much too loud. You’re not used to having to be quiet in the morning. You grab your phone.

Kylie never answered you last night.

_Hey, where are you? Are you okay?_

Not long later, your phone dings in reply.

_I went to the coffee shop around the corner. I needed to think._

The back of your neck goes simultaneously cold and sweaty.

_About what?_

_Us._

_Do you want me to come down?_

_No. I’ll come back when I’m ready._

You know better than to argue when he gets like this, so despite your suddenly shaky hands and your too fast breathing, you just answer,

_Okay. I love you._

He doesn’t reply. You sigh and turn your ringer all the way up so you won’t miss it if he does text you back, then head into the kitchen to see what you have by way of ingredients.

Four eggs. Soymilk. Everything for pancakes, yet again, and coffee, and those are the only two things you know how to make. So that’s what you do.

You bring your phone into the kitchen so you can play some music softly enough that it doesn’t wake your friends. Coffee bubbles away as you plop the batter of the first four silver dollar pancakes into the hot pan, and you can’t help but hum along to the music a little, because it’s your favorite playlist, and it helps ease your frazzled nerves.

Once the pancakes are done and plated up, you put them on the little dining room table just for now, so you can pop an Adderall. Kylie’s going to need to talk to you later, and you want to be able to stay on target. It dissolves a little in the back of your throat before you can get it down, that same sickly sweetness of candy coated ibuprofen. It sticks there until you can get back to the kitchen for a swig of water, then finally goes down. But you gag and you sputter and cough, and Smartypants, light sleeper that he is, stirs and half rolls to look at you.

His brow furrows. “Jen?”

You smile sheepishly. “Sorry. Just taking my Adderall.”

Smartypants frowns. “You going somewhere?”

“No, uh… Kylie… he went out. For a while. But he wants to talk when he gets back and I need to be able to focus.” You turn and grab the plate, each individual pancake spread with strawberry jam, and a roll of paper towels. You set them on the floor between Smartypants and Funshine and give Smartypants your arm to use as leverage to pull himself into a sit.

“Cup of coffee?”

Smartypants smiles. “Thanks. Extra sugar, no milk.” You salute and he laughs, and then Funshine starts to wake, too.

The three of you eat mostly in silence, the music on your phone the only noise in the room.

The music goes uninterrupted the whole meal. Kylie doesn’t text once.

After everyone has eaten, you collect the dishes and rinse them off so they’ll be easier to wash when Smartypants and Funshine leave. The Adderall is starting to kick in, the brain fog starts to lift, the slight ache behind your eyes from trying to hard to keep your focus on things starts to fade.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and say softly, “You guys better go. I’m sorry. You can’t be here when Kylie gets back.”

“We understand.” Funshine’s words are just as soft as yours. She smiles sadly at you. “Let us know if you need anything, okay?”

You smile weakly. “Thank you.”

After you’ve carried Smartypants’s chair down the stairs and you’re sure Funshine has him settled in and can get him back to the car, you hug them both for a little too long and murmur, “I love you both so much, okay?”

“I know, Jen-jen,” Funshine whispers. “We love you, too.”

“We do,” Smartypants says, resting a hand on your waist.

Someone near you clears their throat. You look up with a frown, about to tell off whoever is interrupting your moment with your friends.

It’s Kylie. His face is pinched in and his mouth turned down and his brow furrowed tight. His eyes shine in the morning light, a sheen of tears over the beautiful brown.

“What the fuck, Jen?” he whispers.

You push away from Funshine -- gently, so you don’t hurt her -- and stumble out, “Kylie, they were just leaving, I was just hugging them both goodbye --“

He shakes his head and storms up the stairs. With a helpless glance back at your friends, you scramble up behind him so he can’t lock you out.

Kylie almost closes the door on your fingers but catches it just in time and jerks it open again.

“Kylie --”

“Jen,” he says. Emotionless. Quiet. Oh, god, even screaming would be better than this.

“I can explain.”

You enter the apartment and close and lock the door behind you. You put your hands behind your back and press your palms to the cold door, a motion of surrender.

“Then explain.”

“We were just hanging out on the couch last night,” you start. You pause. “We were all just hanging out and leaning against each other and watching movies and eventually we fell asleep. You know how fucked up my sleep schedule is, and they hadn’t slept in a long time, so we were all just tired.”

Kylie crosses his arms over his chest. “And this morning? When you were lying all over each other when I got up?”

Your fingers twitch against the door. “It’s platonic,” you say. “Everything with them. It’s totally platonic.”

“You were _cuddling_ with them,” Kylie says.

You finally look up to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”

Kylie’s eyes widen and he takes a step back as if you’ve punched him in the stomach.

“You are not even going to try to deny it?”

You frown. “What’s there to deny? It’s just cuddling.”

“Cuddling is for _romantic partners_ , Jen,” Kylie snaps. “And so are incredibly extended hugs like the one you were sharing with Funshine downstairs.”

You go cold, except for your stomach, which goes hot and heaves as the blood rushes from your head. “How long were you there?” you whisper, even though you didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing wrong about hugging a friend going through a hard time.

Is there?

“Long enough,” Kylie says. “Long enough to know it was not a quick goodbye hug.”

You take a step forward. Kylie takes a step back.

“Kylie, it’s not like that,” you say. “Please.”

“Please what, Jen? Sit around and wait until it _is_ ‘like that?’”

“No!” You finally raise your voice in an anguished wail. You take another step forward, fists clenched tight at your sides. “Kylie, I love you! I would never cheat on you, with them or with anybody!”

“I cannot even trust you when you are sober!” he shouts. You freeze. The only time he’s ever raised his voice at you before is when he’s had his ears out. “How do I know I can trust you when you are high out of your skull? What will it take, Jen? One pill? Two? Molly? Ketamine? Acid? What? When is the breaking point when you cannot control yourself anymore?”

You take a step back and all the breath comes out of you at once.

How long has he thought that about you?

“Kylie, you really think I’d --”

“I do not _know_ , Jen!” Kylie shouts. His words are slurring a little more than usual, they’re spilling out so fast. His voice keeps breaking. The sheen in his eyes is gathering at his bottom eyelids. “That is the problem. I cannot even trust you to search for a job while I am at work! Doubles and triples, almost every day of the week, and you just sit at home getting high! How many times have you invited them over when I have been gone?”

The shaking in your hands crawls up your arms and into your shoulders until your whole upper body trembles.

“Nev --”

“I am so tired, Jen.” Kylie’s shoulders slump and all but his arms go lax. His arms wrap tightly around his stomach. Part of you wonders if he put his ears in just so he could protect himself like that.

From _you_ , you realize in horror.

You take a careful step forward and he flinches back, as if he’s afraid you’ll hit him.

 _No, never,_ you want to say, but you can’t, because your throat’s closed up.

“Jen, I…” He pauses. Huffs. Makes that soft, exhausted sigh of that’s half breath, half groan that he does when he’s scared. “I cannot do this anymore.”

Your body goes even colder than the freezing apartment.

“What?”

“I cannot spend every morning wondering if you are going to come home. Whether you are arrested, or have an overdose, or someone is driving high and…” He trails off, but you both know what he means. “Or if you just decide you are finally bored with me. I cannot do it. It hurts too much. It scares me too much. You are not stable, Jen, and you need help.”

Your face screws up and you throw your arms out in frustration. He flinches again and that makes you even angrier, because despite your failings, you’ve tried so hard to be good to him, and he’s afraid of you suddenly? When have you ever even been _mad_ at him until now?

“And how am I going to get that help, huh, Kylie? With what money? With what insurance? How am I going to pay for it? I’m already balls-deep in debt with Funshine, and she’s going to come calling when she needs it for her own bills, and I can’t even pay _that_ off.”

“Do not talk about her!” Kylie shouts.

You slowly lower your hands.

“Kylie?”

“I know you would rather be with her and Smarty. I know! I am not stupid. I see the way you look at her and act around them. You are still in love with them and I am just a replacement.”

Tears sting at your eyes and you gently take his elbow. He jerks away.

“Kylie, no. I would never. I _love_ you.”

“Just get what you need and get out.”

“It’s below freezing!”

“Call your girlfriend and have her pick you up.”

“But --!”

But he turns off his ears and turns away, so verbal argument is pointless, now. He storms into the bedroom. You start to follow, but moments later he comes out with a half full duffel back and throws it at you. You barely catch it before it hits you in the face. It’s heavier at the bottom end.

He packed stuff for you. He was _planning_ on this.

You look up at him with wide, panicked eyes. Your hands keep shaking harder and harder, so bad you almost drop the bag. Kylie points at the coffee table, where your phone and wallet still sit.

“Kylie, you can’t --“

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, the Deaf equivalent of putting his hands over his ears. You drop the duffel bag and rush to him, putting your hands on his shoulders, trying to get his attention as gently as you know how.

This can’t be happening. He _can’t_ be kicking you out. Can he?

But it’s his name on the lease and not yours. You’ve basically been a guest this past year, for all intents and purposes.

Kylie’s eyes shoot open, flashing with anger, and he shrugs away from you.

“Don’t touch me,” he signs. This close you can see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “Get your wallet and phone and jacket and get out.”

“But I have no money!” you sign frantically. “I have nowhere to go!”

Kylie’s hands are a flurry of movement when he signs back, “Your cash savings are in the bag. Call your girlfriend. Get out, now, or I will call the police and they will make you leave.”

You stumble back. He knows what that means. He knows if you’re caught with drugs on you -- and if he was able to get to your cash savings, he was able to get to your Adderall and candy blotters, and probably packed them, too -- you’ll go to prison for a long, long time, and you won’t survive it.

He knows what he’s threatening, and he’s doing it anyway. You don’t know if he’d really do it, but you can’t take that risk.

“Okay,” you sign back meekly. “When can I come back?”

“Don’t.”

You cast your gaze down and gather up your things. Everything goes in the bag. You manage to peek in a few seconds before Kylie starts getting impatient again. Some clothes, a Ziploc of your cash, a phone charger, your Adderall and Xanax and candy blotters. You’ll have to find someone to unload that on. Maybe Ashley will buy them. Get you a little extra cash.

You grab your jacket from beside the door and pull it on. Your scarf, your hat, all in a pile. Pull the gloves out of your jacket pocket and pull them on.

“Go!”

Kylie’s impatient shout makes you flinch. You grab the duffel bag and throw it over your shoulder, then Kylie is next to you, and your eyes brighten, because he’s realized he’s being impulsive and you can work this out and he’s changed his mind --

And he opens the door and shoves you out before you can grab your keys, as if he knew you were planning on coming back later tonight.

The lock clicks shut in place behind you.

The stairwell, right in front of your doorway, looms ahead of you like a pathway through a haunted forest. Where are you going to sleep?

Funshine and Smartypants. You have to call Funshine and Smartypants.

You fumble your phone out and look at the battery. 20%. You call Funshine’s number.

It rings twice.

“Hi, Jen-jen! What’s up?”

“Uh, hi.” Your voice catches, wet and hot, like your throat, your eyes. The shock is wearing off and everything is shaking, even though with all your layers, you aren’t cold.

“Jen-jen?”

“Kylie kicked me out,” you finally manage to gasp out. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Please tell me I can stay with you.”

“Oh, Jen.” Her voice goes soft and serious. “Um, hang on a second, let me… oh, shit. Hang on. Don’t hang up!”

You frown at the phone but do as she asks. There’s a lot of noise and commotion in the background, and then suddenly it goes quiet. You’re almost afraid she’s hung up and abandoned you, too, until you hear a rustling and she’s back on the line again.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear anything in there. Where are you?”

“By the stairs,” you wheeze. Your heart is going miles a second. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe! Your face should be cold in the below freezing air but it’s so hot, you’re sweating, you can’t stop shaking. Your head spins faster than it ever has before, and it’s about to knock you over. What’s going on?

“Okay, we’re just at the coffee shop by your -- by the apartment,” Funshine says. “Can you meet us here?”

“Yeah,” you manage, but it’s weak and shaky.

“Do you want me to come get you?” she asks.

“No, no, I don’t want you to have to mess with Smarty’s chair when it’s such a short walk --“

“Oh, he’ll be fine here by himself!” Funshine assures you. “He doesn’t need me to babysit him, and it’s not like I’ll be gone long.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure her. “I think… I think I need the minute alone.”

“Okay,” she says gently. “I’ll have them make a soy chai for you.”

“Thank you.” That tiny offer of kindness finally breaks you down, and you start to sob, because she doesn’t have to do that, but she knows it’s your favorite and she knows you have to save every cent you can scavenge right now.

“Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?” she asks.

“It’s okay.” You barely manage to get it out through your sobs. You glance over your shoulder at the apartment door, as if hoping Kylie will be there, ready to apologize, ready to hear your apologies and promises to be better, and to let you back in.

He’s not. It’s just a door. Not even your door anymore.

“If you’re sure,” Funshine says, though it’s obvious she isn’t. “We’ll be here. We love you, Jen-jen, okay? We’ll help you figure this out.”

“I love you too.”

You hang up and slide your phone back in your pocket. At least at the coffee shop you can charge your phone.

Smartypants will want you to stay with him and his family, but it’s not his and Funshine’s house anymore. It’s up to his moms. And they’ve never liked you, and you don’t know what they’ll say.

There’s always your two cousins, Asao and Daiji, downtown. You haven’t spoken to them in months, but… they’re family.

 _Family doesn’t mean anything_ , you remind yourself. _Else Mom and Dad would reply to your emails_.

But if Smartypants’s family says no, it’s your only other option.

You pat your cheeks with your gloved hands. They’re cold, now, the wind biting hard at them even through your scarf. You sniffle and wipe your eyes with the ends of your scarf, take in a deep, cold, shuddering breath.

One thing at a time. Get to the coffee shop.

So you take one step, then another, and start heading down the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

“What an asshole,” Funshine hisses. “I can’t believe he’d do that to you! In the middle of winter, too!”

You take another sip of your chai. It’s warm and sweet and spicy and soothing, like Smartypants’s hand on yours and Funshine’s leg pressed against your knee.

“I’m going to try to text him tomorrow after he’s had some time to calm down,” you say. “See if I can go back.”

“You mean you want to go back?” Funshine asks, incredulous. “After what he just did to you?”

“I mean…” You put your chai down and rub at your face. “I don’t…” You heave a heavy, sad sigh. “I guess we’re over, aren’t we?”

Even though you’re looking at the table, from the edges of your vision you can see Smartypants and Funshine share a look.

“I’m sorry,” they both whisper.

“Don’t act like you liked him.”

“I know we didn’t,” Funshine says, “but we love you, and he made you happy. That was all we wanted.”

Smartypants sighs and lifts your hand to press his warm nose against your knuckles, then he puts it back on the table and lets you go.

“Funshine, can I use your phone? I’m going to call my moms and see if Jen can stay with us.”

Funshine digs her phone out of her purse and hands it over. Smartypants dials a number and puts it up to his ear.

“Mom! Mom, hi… yeah, it’s me. Yeah, we’re fine… no, no news on the apartment yet. It’s going to be a while. What? No, that’s fine. We don’t need to come over yet so… it’s fine. Mom, it’s fine!” He laughs a little, then clears his throat. “Mom, I need to ask… what? Yeah… yes, we’re still staying with you. That’s what I need to talk to you about. My… Mom! Will you please just let me finish my sentence!” He laughs a little again and rolls his eyes.

“Our friend Jen just got kicked out of his house and he needs a place to stay,” Smartypants finally manages to get out, amidst all of his mom’s apparent interruptions. “Can he stay with us for any time at all? He doesn’t have much, just a small duffel bag and the clothes on his back -- he can’t pay rent, no, he’s unemployed… I’ll pay it, then! Yes, I will!”

You tune out the rest of the conversation and plop face first into your arms, folded on the table. You’re not staying with them. That much is clear. You’ll have to go over to Asao’s and Daiji’s place downtown and hope for the best.

Funshine gently jostles your shoulder and you turn your head without sitting up. Her cheek is smooshed on the table next to you, and she says gently, “Do you need something to eat? How’s your lactose intolerance been doing? If there’s like… milk in a cookie can you eat that?”

“I think so,” you mumble. “As long as it’s not like… buttercream or milk chocolate or something.”

“Hm.” She purses her lips. She looks so ridiculous, with smudged makeup and her eyes rolled up and her mouth like a fish, you can’t help but snort a small laugh. Smartypants is still talking in the background, but you don’t pay attention to the words, just the familiar ups and downs of his voice.

 _They’ve_ never locked you out of the bedroom. _They’ve_ never kept secrets about their feelings. _They’ve_ always let you know right away when you fuck up so you can actually know they’re upset and fix it.

Funshine tilts her chin up so she can look at Smartypants. He’s still on the phone. You can hear his voice even if you’re not listening to his words.

“I’ll be right back,” Funshine says. She starts to sit up and you jerk up in your seat, grabbing out for her arm. She starts at your sudden movement and slides her wrist out of your now loose hand to take it in hers.

“Jen-jen,” she says gently. Her brow is furrowed. She gently pushes your hair away from your eyes and says, “I’m not leaving. I promise. I’m just going to get you something to eat. Okay? Can you eat eggs?”

It takes a minute to find your voice. “Yeah,” you finally whisper. “I eat eggs. I’m not a vegan. Just a vegetarian that happens to be lactose intolerant.”

She nods. “Okay. I just wanted to be sure that was still the case. I’m going to find you something to eat.”

“Thank you.” Your voice catches and breaks over your tongue as you speak. Even that little kindness means so much.

She stands and kisses the top of your head. She doesn’t say anything about your greasy hair. It’s been a few days since you last showered. Maybe your cousins will let you use theirs when you get there.

 _They might not even let you in_ , says a mean voice in the back of your head. But you don’t listen. You can’t afford to right now.

“Mom, I know he’s my ex but he’s still my best friend. You know the breakup was amiable. Why are you -- Mom! He won’t take up much space, he can sleep in the living room with us… I’ll buy our food, then, if that’s the problem! Mom, _please_!” Smartypants groans in frustration and rests a hand on your back. You turn your gaze away from Funshine over at the counter and back toward him.

“Okay,” he finally says, softly, defeated. “Okay. Yeah, love you too. We’ll see you later today.”

He hangs up and looks as if he’s about to slam the phone down on the table, but thinks better of it and puts it down gently instead.

“Jen?”

Your eyes focus back in again. When did you zone out?

“Yeah?” you murmur.

Smartypants sighs heavily and takes your hand, resting it on his cheek. He turns into your palm and kisses it.

“I’m sorry. They said we don’t have enough room and with so many mouths to feed, they can barely afford me and Funshine. There’s three generations in that house, my grandparents, my moms, my little siblings, a few cousins. There’s just… no room. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you can come over to shower and wash clothes though, and I doubt it would be a problem if you hang out during the day while people are at school and work and there’s more space. Funshine still has to work so it might just be me and you sometimes, but --“

“It’s okay,” you gently interrupt. “Smarty. It’s okay. Really. You tried and that in itself means a lot to me. I’ll just stay with my cousins downtown until I can find work and get my own place.”

 _Your own place_. Without Kylie. Without Kylie waking up next to you, warm and soft and sleepy eyed. Without Kylie’s voice welcoming you into the waking world after he puts his ears in. Without his hands going a mile a minute when he’s excited about something, because his hands could always go faster than his mouth. Without his cooking. Without his hugs and kisses, that always made all the other bullshit worth it.

He’ll never say _I love you_ again. You might never even _see_ him again.

You’ll text him tomorrow. Not too early, even though he wouldn’t hear his phone go off anyway. But so he doesn’t feel rushed. Apologize. Promise to do better and actually do better this time.

Funshine snaps you out of your thoughts when she plops a paper bag down on the table in front of you. Smartypants’s hand tightens in the back of your shirt for a moment, then he drops it back in front of himself on the table.

“What’s this?” you ask, peering into the bag. You pick it up to peer closer, and it’s _heavy_.

“Some bottles of water and all the sugar cookies they had. I know it’s not, like, real food. But I thought it was better than nothing and all the sandwiches had either meat or cheese. I also transferred twenty dollars over to your account… it’s not much, but hopefully it helps.”

You smile weakly, but your love and gratefulness shows when you almost leap over the table to hug her in thanks.

 

The three of you stay at that little coffee shop until about five in the afternoon. If your cousins still work their office jobs, they both get off then despite working in different buildings. You’d text them but you don’t have their phone numbers anymore. They were lost when you dropped your old phone in the sink.

Funshine kisses your forehead and both your cheeks and Smartypants pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, then you do it again and again and again until you really have to get going so you don’t get stuck in rush hour crowds on the train.

“Call us tomorrow, okay?” Smartypants says. “I’ll work on my moms. I can’t promise I’ll change their minds, because they’re both stubborn as hell, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.” You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand. The fibers of your glove stick to your mouth a little.

“Oh!” he continues, reaching for his wallet. “I almost forgot. Here.” He pulls out his transit card and hands it to you. “In case yours runs out. There’s no way I can get into the city by myself from my moms’ house, so it’s no good to me, anyway. You’ll get much more use out of it than me.”

You slide it into your wallet on the opposite side of where yours is, so they don’t get confused.

“Thank you,” you repeat. It seems like that’s all you’ve been saying all afternoon. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Your friends aren’t perfect, but they try so hard. And they know how hard you’re trying, too.

After one final hug for each of them, they head off to their car and you go in the opposite direction toward the Brown Line. You check both cards at the kiosk before you go through the turnstile: exactly twenty on the one from Smartypants and thirty-four and change on yours. Well, at least the trains are warm.

Your cousins live not too far from the Harold-Washington library. You should probably take the bus, because it’s so cold, but it’s been so long you don’t know which stop you’d need until it was too late. So you walk.

The complex is a small one, tucked back in a small corner down an alleyway. It looks horrific from the outside, but if it’s anything like you remember, the inside is cozy and nice.

When you reach the gate, you look for their name to buzz them so they can let you in, but you don’t see Hoshigawa anywhere. You frown. Which was theirs again? 3B?

You try it. It buzzes once, twice, and… a woman picks up?

“Hello?” Her voice is fuzzy and crackled.

“Hi, uh… is Asao or Daiji there?”

A pause.

“Who is this?” The woman’s voice is suspicious, like she thinks you’re trying to jerk her around.

“I’m their cousin? Atreyu Hoshigawa?”

A pause. “What? Is this some kind of prank?”

“No!” You dive toward the speaker on the little console. “Please don’t hang up! I might have the wrong apartment. Do two Japanese brothers in their mid-thirties live here?”

“Hoshiga-- oh! Hoshigawa! I’m sorry, your first name threw me off. They’re subletting to me and my roommate. They had to leave the country for a while. Something about their grandpa back in Japan.”

Even in the warmth of your down jacket and waterproof boots, you go cold. Out of the country? But you don’t know anyone else.

“Are… you sure?” you ask timidly.

“I’m sure,” she says, a little more warmly. “Sorry. When I transfer them the next rent check I can leave a note saying you stopped by?”

“No,” you say. “No, that’s okay. Thank you.”

The speaker goes dead.

If you remember right, the library is open until nine.

So you trek back, and halfway there, it starts to snow.

You find a quiet, out of the way spot back near the books on animal rights and a plug in the wall, sit down, and take off your jacket and lay it out on the ground so it can dry. Of course it’s wet snow tonight. Of course it is.

You get your phone charging, trying to decide if you should text Funshine again and see if Smartypants can get his parents to make an exception just for tonight.

For a long, long while, you just hold and stare at your phone. The screen is off. You don’t even play a game. You just look, and wait, and try to think, but the Adderall from this morning has long worn off and the sharp pain behind your eyes that only comes with thinking too hard is back.

Maybe Kylie’s had enough time to calm down? Maybe you could try?

You unlock your phone. One new text message from a six-digit number you don’t recognize. You open it.

_One or more of the lines on this account has been disconnected. If this is in error, please call or visit your agent._

He shut off your phone.

Kylie shut off your phone.

He didn’t even wait twenty-four hours.

He really doesn’t want you back.

At least you can still connect to wi-fi and get on Facebook if you need to, but Kylie doesn’t have one, and Smartypants and Funshine never check theirs. They still have messages from early this year sitting unread in their inboxes.

The rest are just friend farmers and random internet people who thought you were attractive.

Except Ashley.

Now, you know you could never stay with her. But maybe you can unload some of your drugs on her and at least get enough for a cheap motel for a few nights.

So you connect to the library wi-fi and shoot her off a message, a simple, _I’m in a tight spot and was wondering if you wanted to buy some stuff off me? It’s all clean, tested it myself._

She’s offline. If she was on once today she won’t be on again until tomorrow, but you set a phone alert for when she does get back to you. Because she will. Even if it’s just to say no.

In the meantime, you try to find a shelter you can stay at, but it’s so late in the day, all the spaces are full up. None of the nearby churches have space for the night. All the YMCAs are long closed.

Maybe you can sleep behind a dumpster? If you flip the lid open and lean it against a wall, it could cover you from any more snow or rain. And nobody would bother you. You’re homeless and only have a tiny bag so what would they even want from you?

All you know is you can only stay here until they kick you out at 9:00. After that, you’re on your own.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning you do, indeed, wake up behind a dumpster. Someone flipped the lid back over so all the snow that landed on you overnight and melted due to your body heat soaks you through. At least your feet and upper body are dry, since your boots and jacket are waterproof. But your legs are stiff and cold and you have to get dry somewhere. It’s still dark but it sounds like there’s plenty of traffic.

You check your phone for the time. A little past 6:00. Fuck, the library doesn’t open for another three hours. And it’s Friday, so they close early.

You try to hook into any local unprotected wi-fi, but no luck. You can’t get close enough to the library and everything else is password protected. What you really need is somewhere with a bathroom so you can change into some of the clothes Kylie packed for you.

A cold, sharp pain shoots through your chest at the thought of his name, his face.

How could you have fucked up this badly and not realized it until it was too late?

Your legs are so stiff and your left knee is locked from the cold and wet, and you have to sit there, behind the dumpster, like a city rat looking for scraps, rubbing at your knees until they loosen up and you can stand. You stumble to the nearest street corner, pick a direction, and walk. Eventually you’ll come across a fast food restaurant or a Dunkin Donuts or _something_. The Loop isn’t big, but it’s dense, and everything you could possibly want is here.

Except Kylie.

It doesn’t take long before you see a big yellow M in the distance. You pick up your shuffling feet and walk faster, because behind that M is warmth and dryness and a place to change your pants. You have to be careful with your money, but coffee is cheap there and they have wi-fi.

The dining room is so warm. The woman behind the register looks at you with a tired, drawn expression that you know means she thinks you’re just going to make a mess for her to clean up.

“I’ll be back to order in a minute,” you offer. You point back toward the bathrooms. “I just have to…”

She sighs and waves you off.

Normally you’d never take the handicapped stall, even if no others were available and you needed one, but the place is completely empty and it’ll be so much easier to change in there. You strip off your wet jeans, stiff with iced over dirt, and dry your legs down with a spare shirt before you put on your only other pair of pants. Now that you have some privacy, you move your cash from the bag to your wallet and zip it up in your jacket pocket. It’s all that lies between you and starvation right now, and if your bag gets stolen, you cannot afford to lose your money with it.

You finally take a few minutes to take more than a cursory glance at what Kylie packed for you. The drugs, which you have to get rid of ASAP, just in case you have a run-in with a cop. You’ll have to see if Ashley’s gotten back to you when you hook into the wi-fi. A few long sleeved shirts. The new pair of pants you’re wearing. Your laptop. It’s old, but maybe it’s still good enough to sell. You have a smartphone anyway. A second pair of gloves! Oh, thank god. You pull them onto your shaking hands before moving on.

But that’s pretty much it. No clean underwear. No clean socks! You’ll have to buy some of each at the Target and that’s going to dip into your money even more. All told you have maybe $130, with the money Funshine gave you.

Fuck.

One thing at a time, Jen. Go out into the dining room. Order coffee. Pay for coffee. Extra sugar, no cream. Even the hashbrowns have beef tallow, or, at least they used to, so you’ll have to try to find food elsewhere. You haven’t eaten meat in over ten years, and you don’t want to spend the rest of your day puking. Eventually you’ll have to give in, because you can’t afford to be picky anymore. But not yet. You need a day to collect yourself first.

Maybe you can find a Walgreens or CVS that has some food.

The cashier seems pleasantly surprised when you come back. A lot of people probably do what you just did and leave without buying anything. Honestly, you’d rather not, but you really need their wi-fi and you’re afraid to just hang out without buying something, lest they call the police on you for loitering.

You buy a small one. A dollar. You fumble out a single and a quarter and pass them over with shaky fingers. The cashier looks at you a little nervously, and you chuckle and say, “Sorry, no coffee yet. You know how it is, right?”

A tentative smile crosses her face and she says with a thick Indian accent, “Gotcha.” After she gives you your change, she asks you how you want it, and upon getting your answer says, “Why don’t you sit down. Your hands are so shaky, I’d be afraid you’d spill it! We don’t want that.”

You smile, and you almost start to cry, knowing that a stranger would give you even that small kindness.

“Do you have a wi-fi password?”

The cashier turns around with your coffee and says, “No, you can just log in. Where do you want to sit?”

“By a plug?”

“This way.”

You follow her around the corner and toward the back. She puts your cup on the table and points out the plug in the wall, and says, “Be careful with that coffee now! It’s very full!”

“Thank you.” You plug in your phone and put in your password. She starts to walk away, but pauses, turns around, and says quietly, “We aren’t supposed to advertise this, but if you want a refill, we do one free one before you leave the store.”

You have to make a point to stop your mouth from trembling, but your voice is still a little shaky when you say, “I didn’t know that. Thank you so much.”

She had no reason to be so nice to you. She can’t accept tips and the only thing you can do to repay her is make sure to throw away your trash.

It gives you hope. You’d have never expected a nice person like this to be working downtown.

You check your facebook. Ashley hasn’t logged on yet. You send her one more followup:

 

_I won’t bother you after this, and I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. I just wanted you to know my number has been shut off so I can’t text, only facebook message._

You send it. You send one to each Smartypants and Funshine, too, just on the off chance they’ll check their messages. They’re identical, because your finger joints are still freezing and locking up, since you had to take off your gloves to type.

 

_My cousins are in Japan. I don’t know anyone else. Kylie turned my number off so I can’t call or text. I’ll be checking facebook a few times a day, when I can get wi-fi. Please, can I stay with you? Can you try again? I know I’m not working but I can help with chores and I’ll learn how to cook so I can help with that. Please. All the shelters and churches are full. I woke up to a rat chewing on my hair behind a dumpster this morning. It’s bad._

_I love you so much. Please take care of each other._

And then, because you have to try, you send an email to Kylie.

 

_I have nowhere to go. I slept outside last night. I love you so much, Kylie, and I’m so sorry I hurt you. I didn’t realize the way I acted with Funshine and Smarty upset you so much. I can be better. Please give me a chance to be better._

_I love you._

 

You press the send button and put your phone down so you can pick up your coffee with both hands. The heat slowly but surely seeps through your fingers, loosening up the joints and warming your palms. Just as you’re about to take your first sip, your phone buzzes.

Your email to Kylie bounced back. He’s blocked you.

Your shoulders slump and your face falls as tears finally start welling in your eyes, now that you’re somewhere warm where they won’t freeze to your face.

Could you go back to the apartment? Even if he’s not home, you could wait by the door. It wouldn’t be any worse than where you are now.

What if he calls the police?

He wouldn’t do that. He’s mad, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t hate you, does he? He _can’t_. He can’t hate you because that would mean there’s no way to fix this.

But he shut your phone off and blocked your email. He’s not even open to the idea of talking to you. And you can’t throw away your drugs because if he turns you away that could be your only route to a safe, dry place for a night or two, but if he calls the cops on you and they find you in possession of so much acid and illegally obtained Xanax and Adderall…

What do you do?

You sniffle and the door opens. A nicely dressed woman comes in, followed by more and more business people stopping through to get their morning caffeine fix. For a long time, you watch them and just don’t think, but eventually you get to the bottom of your cup. The lady _did_ say you can get one free refill.

Once the breakfast rush dies down, you grab all your things and head back to the counter. Yeah, you’re just going to sit back down again, but your phone is your only way to connect with anyone you know and your bag has everything in your whole life inside. If someone were to steal it, you wouldn’t be fast enough to stop them even if you were watching.

You get your refill along with a sad smile from the same cashier as before. This time she doesn’t offer to take it out for you, but instead fills up your cup and a new one both halfway.

“For your shaky hands,” she explains. “Can’t leave the counter right now. It’s too busy. But that doesn’t mean I want you getting coffee all over your gloves!”

You smile bashfully. “Thanks,” you murmur, and you go back to your spot in the back of the dining room.

You plug in your laptop, this time, but all your resumes are still on Kylie’s because he has the better word processer, and you never thought to upload them to gdocs. Shit.

Your hands are cold when you scrub your face against them, and you look at your coffee wistfully, but it’s too hot to drink right now. You glance down between your feet, where your bag sits. If you’re going to be able to focus for long enough to write a whole new resume, you’re going to need some help. But your Adderall is just in an old, label-less prescription bottle. If you get caught…

But if you wrap your hand tight enough around, nobody will notice it doesn’t have a label, and it’s not like anyone is back here to see, anyway.

Before you can make a decision, a small group of people comes in and one of them comes back into your area to stake claim to a table.

You’ll have to wait until they leave.

The person by herself -- a woman, maybe a few years younger than you -- is quiet on her own, and so you go back to your laptop to do your best to write up a new resume. It’s clunky and awkward and it feels like it takes forever, but it can’t be that long before her friends come back with their food and god, do people always talk that loud? Is that normal? Or are you just particularly sensitive right now?

You glance at the clock in the corner of the screen -- 9:01. Oh, thank god, the library is open. You pack up your stuff, drain the last of your coffee. You toss one cup but keep the other, because… well, you’re going to end up begging sooner or later.

Oh, right, but first you need dry socks and underwear. Even if you only get a small pack of each, that won’t be cheap. There’s a Target around somewhere, you remember seeing it, so you look up directions on your phone and take a screencap for when you inevitably forget where you’re going, and you head out.

You get turned around quite a bit. You go in the wrong direction for about three blocks at one point before you think to check your map. You pass by a Barnes and Noble, which has a café… maybe they have something you can eat besides sugar cookies. The lack of anything substantial for the past twenty-four hours is starting to hit hard.

But they don’t open for another hour. Granola bars or something at Target would probably be cheaper anyway. So you turn around and head off again.

When you finally make it and get inside, your knees are practically knocking together because it’s so cold out. You should see if you can find some long underwear, too.

You go as slowly as possible. Up and down each aisle, even ones you know you won’t be buying from. The workers seem uninterested, aside from one or two who approach to ask if you need help. No, you say, you know what you need.

You end up with two sets of long underwear, the smallest package of wet wipes you could find, socks, some boxer briefs -- the cheapest they have -- and a box of protein bars that are still chock full of sugar but at least have vitamins and shit in them. Once you have everything gathered, you glance around the aisle to see if anyone would notice if you put some of it in your bag and paid for the rest. Save some money.

Then you see it, up above you: a security camera. You look left, right. They’re everywhere.

Fuck.

Your total ends up being almost $40, which is insane! That brings you down to less than a hundred. If Ashley doesn’t get back to you, you’re definitely going to be sleeping outside tonight.

You linger by the door and manage to hook into someone’s nearby wi-fi so you can check your facebook messages again. No reply from Funshine or Smartypants, but you weren’t expecting any. One new message from Ashley. Guess you didn’t hear it zipped up in your pocket.

 

_Sure. How much you got? How many mg each?_

 

Your message back is a little more rambly.

 

_Ten 3 mg Xannies. 30 candy blotters. Don’t know how much but enough to get you tripping._

 

 

It looks like you got her while she’s still online, because she writes back;

 

_$4 each for the Xannies, $3 each for the blotters. Meet me in two days at our usual place._

_The Xannies are worth at least $6 each! And the blotters are worth $7!_

_Gotta turn a profit babes, take it or leave it._

You grunt in frustration and rub at your face with one hand. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes closed, as if that will be able to help you focus. It doesn’t. It just gives you a headache.

You need the money. You can’t afford to be picky.

 

_Fine. Done._

 

Now you have to find a place to sleep. Maybe at one of the underground Blue Line stops? But the train runs all night, and it would be so loud. Maybe you could just. Fall asleep on a train and stay there. If you get kicked off at the end of the line you can always just get on one going back in the opposite direction.

As it is, that’s your best plan, but that’s later, and you have to focus on right now. Focus, Jen. For once in your goddamn useless life, focus.

You check the time. A little past 10:30.

Maybe you could take a nap in the library? You didn’t see anyone at all during all the hours you were there yesterday. As long as you aren’t messing anything up, it should be okay, right?

You run your fingers through your hair and flinch when you catch a handful of knots. You don’t have a comb or a brush and didn’t think to buy one. Really, having long hair right now is probably stupid. It’s just another thing to catch onto germs and grit and get you a disease. You huff a sigh and look back into the store.

Maybe… maybe you can sit in the park for a while, as long as it doesn’t start to snow again. Maybe if you’re kind, and look pathetic enough, you can raise the four dollars for a cheap hairbrush. You could buy it right now, but… you have less than a hundred dollars, and food downtown isn’t cheap. Even the fast food places hike up their prices.

You scratch the back of your neck at the base of your skull and flinch at all the grit that gathers under your nails. You need a nail clipper, too. They’re too strong to bite down.

Shit. So many little things, three dollars here, five there, one more somewhere else, and then you have nothing.

When you dig the cup out of your bag, it’s a little smushed and there’s still some coffee residue in it. You pocket your phone and pull out one of your empty water bottles so you can fill it up and rinse out your cup at the water fountain.

You do so mindlessly, trying to think of the ideal place to sit. There’s the library, with the train stop right beside. Lots of foot traffic. But easy to get lost.

Bus stops in this area are too crowded. Nobody would notice you.

There’s the park, which was your initial thought. The one by the library doesn’t have many places to sit, which would put you on the ground, but... it seems like a good number of people go through there even if most of them don’t stay.

You fill up the rest of your water bottles and pack everything back up in your duffel, put your gloves back on, zip up your bag and your jacket, pop your hood, and head outside into the freezing cold again.

A blast of wind hits you in the face, sending a chill all through your body. Even with your dry jeans, your knees still hurt from the cold water of the melted snow.

You pull the collar of your t-shirt up over your mouth and nose and hold it there in one hand, cup in the other, bag slung over your shoulder awkwardly, closer to the edge of falling down to your elbow with each step.

When you finally make it to the park, your knees have started to lock up and you curse yourself for being smart enough to buy long underwear but too stupid to put it on before you left the store. You sling your duffel off your shoulder, just barely catching it before it hits the concrete. Shit, your laptop is in there! You can’t sell if it’s broken! You ease it down the rest of the way and pat the clothes to once side of the bag, where you awkwardly balance yourself so you don’t have to sit on the wet sidewalk.

You put your cup out next to your foot and hope for the best.

You don’t want to be That Guy, the one who hassles people for spare change outside the Walgreens, but you can’t afford to be anyone else right now. But you make it a rule not to approach anyone with children, because you don’t want to scare any kids or have a parent call the cops on you, and you don’t approach anyone with a dog, in case it’s not well socialized.

If all that time you’d spent wasted and dancing badly had been spent on building a talent of some kind, maybe you could be busking in the subway right now. But you didn’t. You don’t even know which is the A-string on a guitar or what the little push down button thingies on a trumpet are called.

So instead you become a more easily ignorable version of That Guy, and you sit in the open park in the freezing wind, hoping maybe someone will be nice enough to give you an extra granola bar or something, even if they don’t want to give you change.

Then some asshole with a guitar shows up. He doesn’t quite encroach on your space, but he’s close enough that you can hear him play, and you _hate_ it, because he’s so good, and he’s drawing everyone’s attention, and everyone is giving _him_ money instead of _you_.

With a soft half-growl, half-huff, you grab your cup and stand. You peer inside.

A few coins. None of them are quarters. A gum wrapper. That’s it.

It takes every ounce of self-control you have to not crush the cup in your shaking hand. But you need it. You dump everything out into your hand and pocket the coins and drop the gum wrapper on the ground. Fuck it.

You head back to the library so you can warm up for a while.

 

You stay inside the library for the rest of the day. It closes at five tonight, instead of nine, but it’s still dark when you get back outside again. The winds are high and sharp on your skin, even with all the buildings to break them up.

The Blue Line would be your best bet, because it’s the longest route and if you ran it from end to end, you’d at least be able to get a couple of naps in between moving back and forth at the end of the line. But you’d have to walk a few blocks in the cold to get there, and the station right here has a few different lines.

You hesitate. Another harsh gust of wind hits you, and you scurry up the stairs and tap your card against the turnstile, ready to get on the first train that arrives. And one does not much later. You don’t pay attention to what line it is, because you’re not going anywhere anyway, and you just step on and head to the front of the car where the lone double seats are.

It takes some time and adjustment, because you’re so used to stillness and darkness and quiet, but your whole body is heavy with exhaustion, and the train eventually rocks you to sleep.

 

Your head slams into something hard. You groan and jerk awake, rubbing at your face.

Your bag is gone.

The doors of the train close.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck _shit_.

You jump to your feet just as the train lurches onto the next stop.

All you saw of the person who grabbed your duffel was a shoulder in a dark blue jacket. That could be anyone in the whole goddamn Midwest.

Your clothes, your charger, your laptop, your drugs, your food, your water! Everything you own in the world but your phone and your wallet are in there!

The train jerks to a stop. The doors open. Nobody gets on and nobody gets off. It starts up again, rough and halting. Your knees buckle and you collapse into the seat behind you.

It takes a few minutes. Nobody else is on your train car. Nobody gets on. But finally, when you look up from your feet and out the window as the automated voice announces that you’re at the last stop, it hits you.

You might as well just die here and now.

You stumble off the train, numb even before you hit the cold air, and you cross the platform to get on another train going back. There are a couple people in the car already. Where are you?

You look out the window at the sign. Harlem Green Line. You’ve only been out here a few times, but if you remember correctly, you’re in the Oak Park area. You’re closer to Ashley’s than you would be if you went downtown, but you’re not seeing her until tomorrow night.

Shit, you have to tell her you can’t sell anymore.

You need wi-fi.

That’s enough to jerk you to your feet and get off the train and head down the stairs. If you’re right in your remembering, there are a couple of coffee shops, and you should be able to get service in one of them.

There’s a Dunkin Donuts to the left when you reach the street. That will be your cheapest option, but they usually only allow customers to stay a half hour or so. You peer to the right. You can’t see anything but an old, empty building that used to be a bookstore, but fuck it. You can always backtrack.

It’s barely minutes before you reach a Starbucks. Notoriously expensive, but tea and drip coffee is cheap-ish.

Once you’ve got yourself settled with a hot coffee full up with sugar, you pull your phone out of your pocket and connect into the wi-fi. Still no response from Smartypants or Funshine. Your throat tightens and you sniffle as tears well in your eyes, but even though you have nothing left, much less dignity, you still try really hard not to cry.

You never thought someone would be bold enough to snatch your bag from right under your head.

Even though Smartypants would never hold it against you if you showed up at his door, you can’t, because you don’t know where his family lives. They live in a suburb. That’s all you know. And that’s useless.

You don’t send another message to either of them, because what’s the point? It won’t make them answer any faster. Payphones haven’t been a thing in ages. And the only other people here are a well-dressed couple in their early fifties, and if you tried to approach them for help they’d take one look at you and call the police.

You stuff your phone back in your pocket -- you learned your lesson, leave nothing out of your sight for even a moment -- and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. It’s been two days now without a single Adderall, a single Xanax, not even weed to get you through the day. Fuck, you should have taken it when you had the chance this morning, before your bag got snatched. Your nostrils flare as you breathe in heavy and sharp, fighting off tears.

You’re a walking death sentence. It’s only a matter of time before you starve or freeze.

A pause. You sit up straight and scramble for your phone, pulling up Chrome so you can search, _how much heroin to overdose?_

Your first result is the national suicide hotline. Cute, that they think that’ll help now. You almost want to laugh at the absurdity.

There isn’t much concrete information. It basically varies depending on body weight, metabolism, and drug purity.

After peering around the dining room, you discreetly pull out your wallet and count your cash. $80. That _has_ to be able to buy enough to get the job done, right?

For the first time since Kylie kicked you out, your shoulders lighten, just a little. You stuff your things back into your pockets and grab your tea. There’s a Trader Joe’s down the street. If you’re going to be dead this time tomorrow, you may as well eat something delicious first. They usually have a lot of veg-friendly stuff.

They were Kylie’s favorite.

A rough shake of your head to clear your thoughts. Maybe they still have that falafel wrap thing!

So you make your way over, slowly going up and down the aisles, looking at all the snacks and wraps and oh, man, hummus and pita chips would be so good! Eventually you find the snacks you want most at your ten-dollar cap, leaving you with $70 for your drugs.

After the cashier bags up your stuff, you sit down at the little bench at the front of the store so you can send Ashley a message.

 

_Bag stolen. Everything but wallet and phone gone. Can I buy $70 worth of brown sugar from you tomorrow instead?_

 

You head outside and curl up in the corner of the parking structure next to the Trader Joe’s parking lot. It’s even covered. Things really are looking up.

Maybe that thief was doing you a favor. If you still had your bag, who knows how long you’d keep struggling and failing. It’s so much easier just to give up.

Your phone beeps in your pocket. Ashley’s on a second time today? Must be busy.

 

_Tell you what, I like you and you’re down on your luck right now, so I’ll only charge you half that for the full amount. Same place as always, 6pm._

 

You know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to get you hooked for cheap so she can jack up the price later when you get desperate. But joke’s on her. You’re not going to live that long. And if you’re going to die, you may as well feel good while you’re doing it.

There are no cars too near you so nobody has to kick you out of the way. The asphalt is hard against your sharp hips and shoulder blades, but you eventually find an okay position curled up on your side with your head on your arm.

 

You’re up and down all night. First it’s all the workers pulling out to go home, then it’s the screeching of the busses’ breaks, then it’s the train, that godawful train not too far away. Traffic. The occasional honk or shout. It’s impossible to tell what time it is without seeing the sky, and you don’t want to waste your phone’s limited battery to check. But your estimate puts you at finally passing out at around 2:00 am.

You wake up to a flashlight in your face and a foot nudging your shoulder. With a grunt you wipe at your face, leaving a smudge of dirt behind, and you squint past the light to see two cops bent over you.

For a moment, you almost panic, but then you remember: everything that would be illegal for you to have was stolen yesterday.

You hope the asshole ends up in jail.

“Hey, kid, you can’t sleep here,” the cop with the flashlight says. She stands up straight and shines it on the ground so you can see. You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“Sorry,” you mumble. It takes a couple of tries because your knees are, yet again, fucking frozen stiff, but you get to your feet and the two cops walk you out to the sidewalk.

It’s still dark, but the light inside the Starbucks is on.

Once you’re on your way, the two cops leave, back to their car to hassle someone else.

When you get inside, you collapse into one of the chairs and rub at your knees until they stop hurting. You pull the gloves off your right hand and wake up your phone.

6:30. Less than twelve hours.

Half of seventy is… thirty-five, so that’s what you have to spend on your last day.

You are going to get the biggest hot chai they have. With almond milk. And an espresso shot. And you know what? Fuck it, you’ll get a croissant, too. And ask them to heat it up.

You stay until the sun comes up. Eventually you check your phone again. 40% battery. Almost 8:00.

What are you going to do on your last day on earth?

You have to keep your phone going until 6:00, just in case. After that, fuck it. But you can’t just leave without saying goodbye to Smartypants and Funshine. You love them. And you know they love you. And if things were different, maybe you’d live with them and be happy. Or at least, be happy eventually. But things are what they are, so you log into facebook messenger and send them each a goodbye note.

 

_I love you both so much. I wish it could have turned out different. And I don’t blame you; I know if you knew I was out here alone you wouldn’t hesitate to strongarm your family into letting me stay. But I had to say goodbye, you know? I couldn’t just disappear on you. I love you too much._

_Sorry._

_Love, Jen-jen_

 

You send a near identical one to Funshine. Put your phone on power save mode, stuff it in your pocket. You have about $25 left.

Wait. You have your debit card! Who cares if you overdraft? You’re not going to have to pay it back.

You buy the biggest blackeye they have and cram it full of sugar, then head out the door. It’s not as cold today, or maybe it’s just because you have a hot drink in your gloved hands.

You were never an ambitious person. You don’t have a bucket list. But it would be nice to see Mouse again before you go. Maybe you’ll get lucky and meet up with him in the afterlife, and you can haunt Funshine and Smartypants together. Do séances and shit. Knock over a glass every now and then like a ghost cat.

You smile softly to yourself and take a sip of your coffee.

Now, how to get out to Mouse.

You don’t know this area well, but you’re on Harlem. You know that much. and if you recall correctly, it does eventually connect to Irving Park, which you can then take up to Clark. The train probably wouldn’t be much faster, so bus it is.

The ride is bumpy and with a lot of stop and go. In your infinite wisdom, you decided to make the trip during rush hour.

It takes a long time. Longer still on your second bus. But you get there, and you drop a penny on the ground at the gate, then make your way through the statues and the graves, until you get to Mouse’s over in the corner. The gravestone is covered in dust and dirt and there are weeds growing everywhere. A deep frown cuts into your face. You drop to your knees and put your coffee to the side, clearing out all the weeds, using your sleeve to wipe off as much of the grime on the granite headstone as you can.

“I’m sorry, Mouse,” you whisper. “I should have visited you more. I know you’re far away but that’s no excuse. But I figured your family would be taking care of you, if I knew I’d have --” Your voice catches in your throat. You wipe your dirt-smeared hands on your pants and pour out a bit of your coffee next to the grave.

“Have a drink,” you start to offer. Then, “Shit, can you hear me in the afterlife? Should I be signing right now?”

You chuckle a little at yourself. Are there such things as Deaf ghosts? “You’re probably thirsty, huh, being alone so long. But don’t worry. I’ll be there soon. Less than ten hours, now!”

The gravesite blurs when your eyes start to water. You rub at them with your knuckles and sniffle a little.

“First thing we do is hide Funshine’s licorice stash, yeah?”

A soft breeze picks up and rustles your tangled hair. Like he’s saying, _Yeah. That’ll be fun._

You stay there for a long time, knees on the hard dirt, occasionally stroking the cold headstone with your fingers, like it’s Mouse in front of you, not just his ghost, like you’re running your fingers through his hair in the way he used to like. It was almost as dark as yours, but curly, and much shorter.

His eyes were brown like yours, too. But more golden in the center. His were always prettier.

Do ghosts have eye colors? Will you get to see them again?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Only after your knees start going numb do you finally stand. He needs flowers. Where can you buy flowers around here?

There’s the Whole Foods in Boystown not too far. Maybe a twenty minute walk? Thirty if you take your time?

What’s an hour round trip if it means Mouse can have some flowers? If you only have one more day, you should at least spend it doing something worthwhile.

You press a kiss to your dusty fingers and touch them to his headstone.

“I’ll be back, okay?” you whisper.

On your way out, you pick up your penny and put it to the side where the spirits can more easily find it and someone is less likely to pocket it. You don’t look back as you leave.

You twist and turn through the neighborhoods so you can double back past the graveyard without looking back into it. Eventually you end up at a Walgreens near the Red Line. Maybe they have flowers.

It’s the middle of winter, not quite Christmas, so flowers are scarce. But they have a couple of generic bouquets of random filler flowers, and, you know, you could easily go the three or four more blocks to the Whole Foods and get something fancy, but Mouse will deck you for it when he meets you in the afterlife. He never did like fancy things. You grab a small teddy bear, too. It’s cute. Green, his favorite color. Sure, it has little snowflakes on it, but they’re glittery and sparkly and, if he were here with you now, he’d buy it. You’re sure of it. So you put it on your debit card and you don’t care that you go into overdraft, because even in the US, the bank can’t get money from a corpse.

You head back a different way you came, more straightforward, right down the street past the other graveyard. Your boots crunch on the remainders of icy snow left from the fall two days back.

You drop another penny at the graveyard’s gate. You might not be taking anything, but still. The dead deserve gifts, too.

When you drop to your knees in front of Mouse’s grave again, you spend what feels like hours organizing the flowers and the bear, trying to make them look just right, because if the last thing you do in your life is going to be an overdose, the second to last thing should at least be something worthwhile.

You lean back on your legs when your back starts to cramp. Your clothes are covered in grit and dirt. There are even smudges on your face and neck, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You sit up straight and stretch out your shoulders, your arms, your neck. Pull your phone out of your pocket and check for wi-fi. Nothing local. Maybe the Burger King kitty corner from here will have it?

So you stand, brush off your clothes as if that will help, and when you reach the graveyard entrance, you pause. Again, you don’t look back. Bad luck. But there was a coffee shop back by that Walgreens, a little local one. You’ve never been in there, but every indie café you’ve been to has been awesome. Why not treat yourself one last time, now that your blackeye is gone?

And you go back the way you went the first time, waving goodbye to Mouse over your shoulder, but you don’t look.

You only stay long enough to log into the coffee house’s wi-fi so you can send a message to Funshine: _Visit Mouse more often. He’s lonely. His headstone was barely readable under the muck and his site was covered in weeds. Cleaned it up. But that’s all I want you to do for me after I’m gone._

And you shut your phone off, grab your coffee (and an extra straw for later), and head out to who the fuck knows where, because you certainly don’t, and it doesn’t matter as long as you’re back in Ashley’s neighborhood by 6:00. It’s 3:16 now.

You should probably make your way back and just find somewhere to hang out in the area. Away from your meeting spot. She’s still Funshine’s and Smartypants’s dealer, too, so you don’t want to start trouble that might fall on their shoulders.

You take the Harlem bus back to the Green Line, as far as it goes. Walk farther. Take a… a right, you think?

Oh, fuck’s sake. Why does everything look so different from the sidewalk than it did in Funshine’s car? You backtrack to the Dunkin Donuts to leech off their wi-fi and look it up.

Finally, you get into the area about 5:30. Ashley is never anything but punctual, so you wander around for the next half hour. Gotta keep your legs moving. Gotta get this nervous energy out. You won’t be calm again until the heroin is in your hands and you’ve cut it into lines.

You check your phone again. Again. Again. Finally, 5:55, so you head back to the alley behind the apartment complex where Ashley probably doesn’t even live to meet her.

The both of you arrive at the same time. Ashley’s still in that same fashionable peacoat, with a yellow scarf now, too.

It’s the same yellow as Funshine’s hair. You’re going to miss her.

In the meantime, though, you can haunt the shit out of her and Smartypants.

And, as much as you realize this is partly Kylie’s fault, too, for kicking you out, you can’t bring yourself to blame him. You must grimace at the thought of him, because Ashley hikes an eyebrow and ashes her cigarette.

“Got the money?” she asks, once you’ve stepped up into her space.

You pull out the wad of fives, folded into each other, and hand it over. She drops a Ziploc in your hands. Inside are a bunch of smaller baggies. She even dosed it out for you. How nice. It’ll be easier to cut into manageable lines this way.

It’s more than you would have expected, even at its street value, but you don’t complain. You just stuff the drugs in your jacket pocket, salute, and walk off without another word.

Behind you, Ashley lets out a snort, but you don’t turn around to see whether it was amusement or disgust.

 

Once you’re back on the Green Line heading downtown, you feel free again. Your shoulders relax. Your legs stop twitching. You can _breathe_. You even lean back against the window, letting the vibrations buzz in your skull all the way to your feet.

And then, they announce your stop. You get off and practically bounce down the stairs. Finally. All the bullshit in your head and around you is going to stop. Forever. Ghosts don’t have ADHD or addictions or ex-boyfriends. Ghosts just haunt people and fuck around with Ouija boards.

You duck behind the dumpster where you slept that first night, in the alleyway. Pull your gloves off so you don’t lose any of the heroin to static. Pour it out on your ID and cut it into lines with your library card. Pull the straw out of your pocket and chew and bite on it until you manage to break off a small piece.

The first wave hits you almost like the time Smartypants let you try one of his Vicodin after his surgery, but like, times a _hundred_. Your whole body slumps against the side of the dumpster. Another line. Another. Keep going until there’s none left or your body gives out, whatever happens first.

For a few minutes, you’re warm. Soft. Pliant. Fluid. More relaxed and happy than you can remember being since before Mouse died.

Then the nausea hits. You lurch up onto your knees and slam your hands into the wall, puking up black coffee and sugar and stomach acid and god, it _burns_. Why didn’t you know heroin makes you puke? You feel like that’s something you should have learned.

As you blow your nose into your hand and snort vomit out on your cold fingers, an old Sarah Silverman tune you haven’t thought of in ages pops into your head:

_You’re gonna die soon, you’re gonna die soon, it’s not cold in here, you’re just dying._

“What the fuck,” you half-groan, half-chuckle. Really? Christ, Jen, what is _wrong_ with you?

Your heart pounds hard in your chest -- tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump -- and you lie down in the mud and the trash, curling away from the puke you just spewed all over the wall, although it doesn’t really matter much at his point. A wave of dizziness washes over you and you feel like you’re sinking even though you’re still, and even though you want to stop, you want to just let go, your body keeps fighting to breathe.

But slowly, slowly, you disconnect. Your eyes close. Your breath comes in uneven, shuddering, wheezing gasps, but you’re so tired. You’re so tired. If you could get to sleep before it kills you. That’s all you want. The last thing you’ll ever ask for.

Through the haze, you vaguely feel something shaking your foot, hear a man’s voice over the irregular pounding of your heart, though you can’t understand any words. But he’s too late. You’ve already given up.

This time you’re not coming back.


	11. Chapter 11

When you wake up, your hand is draped over your chest under a blanket, and it’s so, so cold, and there’s beeping and voices and you don’t open your eyes because you’re just too tired.

“Did I do it?” you manage. “Am I dead?”

“Oh!” an androgynous voice says. “Ronan, honey, he’s awake!”

You don’t know that voice. Who’s Ronan?

Very, very slowly, you manage to turn your head in the voice’s direction. Your eyes flutter a few times before you manage to crack them open in a squint. A young East Asian woman, maybe your age, is sitting in one of the chairs with her hands on her knees. She’s in pastel pajamas, a tan coat draped over the back of her chair. Next to her is a white man, again, the sameish age, but wearing all black. His hands are also on his knees, but rubbing up and down his legs in something that looks like anxiety.

Both of them are staring at you.

“Are you the afterlife receceptionalist?” You ask. That’s a word, isn’t it? You don’t remember.

The woman smiles at you. There’s no trace of pity or sadness. She mostly seems relieved you’re here. So it is the afterlife, then. No one would look at you like that if you were alive.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says gently. “I’m Angie.” She rests her hand on the man’s leg. His hand stills and he instead puts it on hers. “This is Ronan. How are you feeling?”

“I think we should call the nurse and let her know he’s awake,” the man -- Ronan -- says.

“Oh! Of course, of course,” Angie says. She reaches over to the table beside your bed and grabs the nurse call button.

Oh no. No no no _no_ **_no_**. You’re not dead. You’re in the hospital. These two goddamn do-gooders must have called 911.

Three things happen in quick succession:

Angie presses the nurse call button.

You grab it out of her hand a second too late.

The light outside your room goes on and something starts beeping.

“The overdose must be awake,” a woman says, far away on the other side of the curtain giving you a semblance of privacy.

Nice. You’re not Atreyu, or Hoshigawa, or even “the Japanese guy” or a room number. Just “the overdose.” Fucking _awesome_.

Ronan frowns deeply, his whole mouth turning down and his brow tightening in anger. Even from your place on the bed you can see his jaw clench.

Why is he so mad? Is it on your behalf?

The nurse sweeps the curtain to the side and enters, and before anyone else can speak, Ronan says, “His name is Atreyu, not ‘the overdose.’”

The nurse goes pale. Obviously none of you were supposed to hear that.

“How do you know my name?” This is not the most pressing question you have, but it’s the first one that comes out.

“Oh, uh, your ID,” Ronan says softly, averting his eyes, like he’s afraid you’ll be mad. “The paramedics pulled your wallet and phone out of your pocket to check for any medication allergies.” He pulls them both out of his hoodie pocket and stands. You expect him to just drop them on you, but he extends his hand for you to take it from him, instead. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers, crusty with dried vomit, brush against his.

He sits down again.

“Atreyu,” the nurse says. She’s not so cold, now, but she’s obviously hurried and wants to move onto a patient she thinks deserves her care. “My name is Misha and your doctor is Dr. Gupta. He’ll be in in a minute. I’m just here to check your vitals.”

You cast your eyes down and let her flutter around and do her thing. You don’t fight. You don’t argue. You don’t speak at all.

You can’t even kill yourself right.

Misha leaves the room as abruptly as she came. Ronan frowns after her, but quickly turns his gaze back to you.

“How are you feeling?” Angie asks gently. You realize the nurse never asked.

“Why did you call 911 for me?” you ask. You’re too tired to be accusatory. Too tired to be mad.

Ronan looks taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I? You looked terrible and you were completely unresponsive. You’re lucky the paramedics recognized what was happening and Narcaned you on site or you’d probably have died before they got you here.”

You slap your hand over your face and groan. When you clench your fingers, something pulls at your knuckles, and you realize you have an IV line taped to the back of your hand. “That was kind of the point,” you mutter to yourself.

Angie gasps. Shit. You said it too loud.

“Atreyu, honey, don’t say that!” she says softly, but firmly. “No matter how bad things might seem, there’s always eventually a time it gets better.” She lurches forward and takes your left hand. Hers are soft and warm and oh, it hasn’t even been three days since Kylie kicked you out but it still feels like it’s been ages since you’ve been touched in a friendly way.

You want to pull away. You want to be angry. But when she starts to rub her thumbs up and down the back of your hand, the ice in your veins shatters into cold splinters up and down your body, and when the tears start to fall, the heat begins to melt the shards.

“I prefer Jen,” you finally manage.

“What?” Ronan asks.

“Jen,” you repeat. “Call me Jen.”

A pause.

“What are your pronouns?” Angie finally asks. “Is your ID accurate?”

Holy shit. Holy shit. You just tried to kill yourself and these two strangers not only saved your life but they’re thoughtful enough to ask you about pronouns because your nickname is feminine?

What did you do to deserve such kindness?

“Uh, he and him,” you finally answer. Angie smiles and she nods. “It’s uh. The kid in the. The Dark Crystal. His name is Jen. And an old friend thought I looked like him so…” You trail off stupidly, unsure of what to say.

“Have you seen Mirrormask?” Angie asks. You squint at her, confused. She must see it on your face because she says, “Almost everyone I know who likes one of them likes both.”

“Uh. Yeah,” you finally stumble out. Why is she being so nice to you?

But her smile and body language are genuine and open. She’s not fucking with you. And sure, Ronan looks a little nervous, but now that you’re starting to become more aware of your surroundings, you’re able to match his voice now to the stranger who was shouting at you earlier.

A drug overdose downtown behind a dumpster, with maybe your foot sticking out in the open, and he called the paramedics.

A knock comes on your door. The curtain swings to the side and another woman, a little younger than the nurse, enters the room. She talks so fast you can’t keep up with her, shoves paperwork in your face to sign, agreements to pay and address checks. You let them think you still live with Kylie. He’ll probably just toss the bills anyway. It’s not like he’s on the hook to pay for it, and where else would they send it? The library?

She leaves again. You struggle to sit up and a wave of nausea slams into you. You lurch forward and Angie, sitting a little closer than Ronan, jumps up and gently rests her hand on the back of your shoulder.

“How can we help, sweetie?” she asks.

You breathe, slow and deep, through your flared nose, until the doctor comes back and introduces himself. Angie sits back down. Not much happens. He tells you about substance abuse programs at the hospital and Narcotics Anonymous, gives you some pamphlets and your discharge paperwork. Takes off the IV line and bandages your hand.

“And you’re free to go,” he says, shooting out the door to his next patient without waiting for a response.

You look down at your lap, your top covered in a hospital gown, fingers covered in crusty vomit, papers strewn all over your lap.

“Fuck,” you whisper, cringing when it catches in your throat.

Ronan slips off his jacket and hands it to you. “Here,” he says. “They had to cut you out of yours.”

“ _Fuck_.” Just as soft, but a little more emphatic.

Angie stands and takes Ronan’s hand, shuffling him out of the room. They must be waiting because this is a nice jacket, and you can’t imagine Ronan would just _give_ it to you without securing a way to get it back.

Your jeans are covered in wet and the stink of puke and garbage. At least you can clean your boots. But now you not only have a million overdraft fees to deal with, you have a hospital bill of probably thousands of dollars, negative money, and nowhere to live.

If only Funshine or Smartypants ever checked their facebooks!

But then, you realize --

Ronan called 911. He has a phone. Maybe you can use it to call Funshine!

You jump to your feet, sending papers flying. With a soft curse you drop down to pick everything up, then you grab your wallet and phone from the little side table.

You press the power button.

Nothing happens.

Again.

Still nothing.

Your phone is dead. You can’t access her number and you never had it memorized.

And your charger is long gone, with the rest of your bag.

A gentle knock on the door. You wipe at your face with the back of your unbandaged wrist.

“Yeah?” you croak.

Ronan peeks in at the side of the curtain, and, seeing you dressed, walks back in and grabs Angie’s coat.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” he asks. “Angie brought the car to meet us here.”

“Wait, what?” Your brow pinches in and you frown in confusion. “She wasn’t with you when you found me? You called her?”

“Well… yeah,” Ronan says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone, and she didn’t want me here by myself. So she met me. Do you need a ride?”

When you don’t move or answer, he gently takes your elbow and guides you out to where Angie is waiting. You need a ride to Smartypants’s house, but you don’t know where it is. You can’t go back to Kylie now. He’ll only think you proved him right.

You don’t realize you’ve been walking until the front doors open and the cold air of mid-December hits you hard in the face. But the cold helps with the nausea a little. Ugh. You haven’t puked like that since your k-hole all those years back.

“What time is it?” you finally think to ask. Ronan slips his phone out of his pocket.

“Nearly 3:00,” he says. He pockets it again and looks back up at you, which is actually down, because he’s minimum four inches taller than you. Angie is almost as tall as he is. But. You’ve never had delusions of being anything but short.

You grumble and wipe at your face. Angie unzips her purse and shuffles around inside, then hands you a couple of wet wipes.

“Here, honey,” she says. “This will help you feel better. I know I always feel better after I wash my hands and face.”

The three of you stand in silence on the sidewalk at the ER entrance as you wipe your face, your hands, the back of your neck. The wipes come away almost _black_ , you’re so coated in grime. After just three days!

You crumple up the wipes and stuff them in your back pocket to throw out when you come across a garbage can. For another few moments, the three of you stand awkwardly in a little triangle. Ronan rubs at his arm and you hustle to take his jacket off and stuff it in his hands, even though it just leaves you in a hospital gown and your jeans. He stumbles back a step in surprise, his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth opens, but then Angie steps in.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asks. You don’t know if she heard Ronan ask earlier, but they keep asking you, and… and what do you say? Oh, just drop you off back behind the dumpster, that’s fine? You’ll freeze to death overnight without a jacket.

The couple stands in front of you, Ronan inching closer and closer to Angie to try to leech off her warmth. She takes her scarf off and gently wraps it around your neck.

“Jen?” she prompts. “Can we take you home?”

“Do you think…” You trail off, wrapping your bare arms tight around your chest. Ronan drapes the jacket over your shoulders again.

It’s 3am. Nothing is open, and these two literally just saved your life. How could you ask them for anything?

“Yes?” Angie says gently. Her smile is so soft and bright at the same time. It reminds you of Funshine, a little, but without any of the mischief.

“I…” You start again, then bite your lip.

“Do you need a place to go?” Ronan asks. His brow furrows in worry. “Are you homeless?”

“I mean, yes, but, but it’s not that, it’s… it’s stupid,” you finally say, turning your head down. Your throat tightens and your eyes are wet and your shoulders start to tremble a little.

“Hey, hey,” Angie says gently, taking a few steps forward and placing her hand on your arm. You should shrug it away. You don’t deserve to be touched like that, so gently, so kindly. But oh, god, how you need it, so you don’t.

“Can you buy me a bag of m&ms?” you finally ask. “Even just a tiny one. I need to know if it’s going to rain.”

Angie’s hand twitches and the snow crunches under Ronan’s boots as he takes a step closer.

“What do you mean?” he asks. His voice is gentle, too, but also a little wary.

You pull the jacket tighter around your shoulders, too scared to slip your arms into the sleeves because then they’ll want it back. The cold burns your knuckles red and raw.

“If the first m&m out of the bag is green, that means it’s going to rain,” you try to explain. It must sound crazy to them, but it’s true, it’s something you’ve been doing your whole life and it’s never been wrong. “I need to know if it’s going to rain so I know if I can sleep outside again or if I need to find a dumpster or something.”

A beat of silence. You’re afraid to look up. You flinch when Angie drops her hand from your arm, and your whole body tenses up when she gently nudges your chin up with a curled finger.

“Hey,” she says. “Don’t worry. You’re not sleeping outside tonight. You can take our couch.”

Your head jerks up so fast, something in your neck pops.

“What?” you whisper. Surely you heard that wrong. Nobody is that kind to someone they don’t know.

“We’ll help you figure out something more permanent in the morning,” Ronan says. Angie wraps her arm around him and gently places her other hand on your shoulder.

“For now, though, it’s late, and I work on Sundays, so I need to get to bed,” he finishes. “You can borrow some of my clothes. They’re all probably too big, but they’re clean and warm.”

“You can take a shower, too, if you want,” Angie adds. “I know when I leave the hospital I always feel kind of icky.”

Angie and Ronan’s car is on the older side, but it’s clean and warm and it runs smoother than any bus or train. Nobody speaks as Angie drives back to their place -- they’re probably too tired, and you? You’re afraid if you say the wrong thing they’ll change their minds and kick you out.

Even downtown, there’s very little traffic this late at night. Early in the morning? You lean with your head against the window and the buzzing vibration is all that keeps you from drifting off.

They don’t live far from the hospital. Angie pulls into a below-ground parking garage connected to a high rise apartment building. Their rent for one month is probably more than you and Kylie have ever had at once, combined.

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose when you think his name. It seems like so much more time has passed since he kicked you out, but it has only been three days, and you haven’t had time to mourn the relationship yet. You’ve been too busy trying not to die. Then trying to die.

The garage is freezing, even with Ronan’s coat over your shoulders. You try to hand it back to him but he just gently pushes your hand back.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s only a short walk to the elevator.”

You pull your hand back and clutch the jacket to your chest, then nod and slip it back on again. It’s so warm. Even warmer than your old one. Angie’s scarf is still around your neck, and it smells like what must be her perfume, or lotion, or something. Like oranges and herbs.

Yeah, they’re probably going to kick you out in the morning, but for now? For now, you can pretend they’re your friends, and that you have a place with them.

The apartment is big and airy and spacious, despite it only being a one bedroom. It’s warm, so, so warm, and even though Ronan tells you you can sit, you stay in the middle of the living room, shoes kicked off by the door so you don’t damage the hardwood, socked toes curled up tight into the balls of your feet. You’re covered in grime. You don’t want to wreck their furniture.

Angie and Ronan both head through the doorway to the left and split off in opposite directions. You stay.

It’s pretty, a little eclectic, lots of warm browns and bright jewel tones. Your eyes keep drifting back to the couch, which looks so soft, covered in pillows and a crocheted throw.

Angie comes back first. She hands you a towel and gestures you to follow her.

“Bathroom’s this way,” she says. “Don’t worry about the hot water. The heat and water are both included in the rent. You can take a bath if you like, but if you’d rather a shower, that’s fine, too.”

She opens the door and steps to the side to let you in.

“Here,” Ronan says from behind you. You turn around to see him handing Angie a stack of clothes. He presses a kiss to her forehead and she stands on her toes to kiss him properly. You look away.

“Go to bed, sweetie,” she whispers. “I’ll be fine.” She turns back to you and hands you the clothes. “Here,” she says. “Use any of the bath products you like. Ronan gets a discount.”

You look up at her again, and open your mouth to speak, but your stomach growls, so loud in the quiet bathroom. You flush bright red and whisper, “Sorry.”

Angie smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll see if we have anything easy to make. I’m sure we have oatmeal?”

You take a step back, almost tripping over the bathmat.

“Oh, I couldn’t, you’ve already --”

Angie props her hands on her hips, and you’re almost afraid you’ve made her angry, but she has a smile on her face.

“You can and you will,” she says gently. She pats your arm and says, “I’ll get you a real blanket for the couch while you wash up.”

And she slips out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

Curled up cozy and warm on the soft couch, you could sleep forever. But you stir when someone gently shifts the blanket to cover your head, snuffling softly and stretching your legs out long. Shuffling. Creaking floorboards. A man calling out, “Love you!” and a door closing and locking shut behind it.

That’s not Kylie. Kylie doesn’t speak that casually, and his voice is a little more nasal.

You poke your head out from under the blanket and squint into the bright light pouring in from the kitchen. Soft humming echoes through the apartment, along with the sizzle of cooking food.

When you run your fingers through your hair, you could almost cry, because even if it’s a little tangled, it’s clean, you’re clean, you’re clean and dry and as soon as Ronan gets home from work they’re probably going to make you leave, just like Kylie did.

The room is warm, so you slide out from under the blanket and quietly make your way to the doorframe that leads to the kitchen so you can peer in. Angie is dancing a little wiggly dance as she hums and stirs something in a frying pan, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She spins around and almost drops the spatula when she sees you. You jump back, but she just laughs.

“Oh!” She stirs the pan again and turns back to you. “I didn’t realize you were up! I was just making myself some breakfast. Do you have any food allergies?”

You scratch at the back of your neck, and no dirt comes off.

“Uh, I’m lactose intolerant? And I don’t eat meat, but eggs are fine.” You stumble to follow up with, “but only if it’s no trouble, I’m okay with oatmeal again. I know how to do that.”

Angie turns the burner off and pours a mass of scrambled eggs out on a plate beside a stack of bacon.

“Nonsense!” she admonishes. She grabs another plate and scrapes half the eggs out on it. “Do you like toast?”

“Um. Yes, thank you.”

“I’m allergic to dairy,” she continues, grabbing a loaf of bread from the fridge and dropping two slices in the toaster. “So you don’t have to worry about your lactose intolerance here. And as for the no meat, we’ll figure something out!”

The toast pops back up and she drops one piece on each plate, grabs two forks, and shoves the plate without the bacon into your hands. “Come sit and eat with me, honey,” she says. “I want to talk to you.”

You trail after her into the little breakfast nook connected to the living room and sit down. You try so hard to eat slow and be civilized, but you haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and before that, it was just a Starbucks croissant and coffee. But Angie doesn’t comment on the way you pile the eggs onto the toast and wolf it down in huge, messy bites. She just lets you eat your gross, messy way as she eats small bites much more delicately. But there’s no judgment on her face, in her posture.

Your food is gone in less than two minutes, while Angie has barely started hers. She grabs a roll of paper towels from the opposite edge of the table and hands them to you.

“Oh, um. Thanks. Thank you.”

“Last night,” Angie says abruptly, but gently. “Your overdose. It wasn’t an accident.”

It’s not a question. Shit. You were hoping she’d forget about that part.

You stay silent, looking down at your plate. You wish you had some more toast to soak up the crumbs, anything to keep your hands busy. Angie takes a bite of her bacon and chews thoughtfully.

“If you try again while you’re here, Ronan and I will have you committed for your safety and ours. I want to be very clear about that.”

Your head shoots up. “What do you mean, while I’m here?”

Angie’s brow furrows and she puts the rest of her bacon slice back on the plate. “Well, we’re certainly not going to make you sleep behind a dumpster in this cold weather! How long have you been out there?”

You bite your bottom lip so it doesn’t tremble. “Three days.”

Angie cuts her toast in half and puts the unbitten piece on your plate. This time you try to eat a little slower, a little neater.

“I don’t want to say, ‘not too long, then,’ because I can’t imagine how hard even one night must be out there. Where did you live before? What happened? Do you have someone you can go to, or do you need us to help you set something up?”

“Um,” you mumble around a mouthful of toast. You cover your mouth with a fist and swallow. You clear your throat. “I lived with my boyfriend,” you murmur. Your stomach rolls and suddenly that last bite of toast looks like poison. You put it back on your plate. “He. He kicked me out. For a lot of reasons.”

Angie gasps and you flinch. “He kicked you out when it’s this cold out?” she whispers, like she can’t imagine someone would be so cruel. But Kylie’s not cruel. You just deserved it.

“He didn’t mean for me to end up on the street.” You’re quick to defend him, even now. “I was going to live with some friends, but they’re staying with family for a few weeks and there wasn’t enough room. And so I came downtown because I used to have two cousins who lived here but they moved. And didn’t tell me. And.” Your throat tightens and you try to clear it. You wipe at your eyes with the heel of your hand, fingers curled in so you don’t get egg and toast crumbs all over your face.

Angie leans forward and gently takes your other hand. “Oh, oh, sweetie, it’s okay. It’s okay. One thing at a time, all right?”

You nod.

“You came downtown and they were gone. Your friends couldn’t make room?”

“I don’t know,” you choke. “He turned my phone connection off so I couldn’t call them. I’ve been hooking into wi-fi and trying to send them facebook messages, but they don’t really check it. They’re living with Smarty’s parents and I don’t know where their house is, so I couldn’t even just. Show up and hope.”

Angie takes the last few bites of her breakfast and stacks your plate on top of hers. “Do you still have your phone?” she asks.

“I need to charge it. But yes.”

“All right.” She stands and takes the plates into the kitchen, rinses them off and puts them in the dishwasher. “Let’s see if we have one that’s compatible.”

She gently takes your shoulder and guides you back into the living room. “Let’s see,” she says, as you sit back on the couch. You wrap the still warm blanket around your shoulders, watching as she kneels down in front of the entertainment center. Opens a drawer, digs around a bit, pulls out a handful of cords. She comes back to sit beside you and hands them over.

“This is what we have,” she says. “If none of them work, we’ll see about getting you one.”

You try each cord in your phone as Angie continues to talk.

“Now, Jen,” she says, gently but firmly. Your hands are shaking, making it even harder to tell if the cords don’t fit or if your aim just sucks. “We’ll figure everything out in detail when Ronan gets home, but I want to make something very clear from the start, okay?”

Finally, the last cord slips in and you look up. You hold up your phone silently, like a child showing off a shitty art project.

“Good!” Angie beams. She plugs the usb end into a wall mount and sticks that into the socket somewhere beside the couch.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” you ask. Your brow furrows and anxiety spikes in your chest at the idea she might think you weren’t listening. “Sorry, I have. Sorry.”

“You have what?” Angie asks gently.

“ADHD. And probably some other stuff.”

“Do you have insurance?”

You hike an eyebrow. She smiles and holds her hands up.

“Fair enough. We’ll help you figure out what your options are. But, as I was saying, we need to have one very serious, very important ground rule: no drugs in the house, and if you’re high, you can’t be here. Ronan will be sober for twelve years in January, and I am _not_ going to let you or _anybody_ mess that up. Do you understand?”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say, so you close it again and nod.

“I’ll respect you and your space,” you finally manage.

“I understand that we’re not your parents, and really, not even your friends yet,” she continues. Her voice is still gentle, not a threat anywhere, but it’s firm and stern. “But Ronan has worked _so hard_ , Jen. That’s why he stayed. That’s why I came to the hospital. He wants to help you, too, because he could have easily ended up there himself as a teenager. Can we trust you with our prescriptions or do we need to lock them up? Please be honest.”

You shake your head, tangled hair flying every which way. “I’d never steal from someone. A business, sure. But not a person.”

She purses her lips and squints at you, as if searching you for a lie. Finally, her face goes back to normal and she smiles softly.

“Okay.”

She gently pats your knee, then stands. “Speaking of, I have to take my pills, so I’ll be right back.”

You watch after her. She turns to the right, into the bathroom. Not the bedroom. Shit, _can_ they trust you, knowing there’s medication that could potentially get you high so easily within reach?

You tug on your hair a little and hiss at yourself through your teeth. Of course they can trust you. You’re not a thief. They saved your life, for better or worse, and you’re not going to betray them by stealing medication they need.

Angie stops in the bedroom before she comes back out to sit with you. She has a laptop with her now, with a bright pink case the same color as the lipstick you saw on the counter last night. Even though everything is shit, you still smile a little, because how can you not when sitting next to someone so friendly with something so bright?

“Now,” she says, “I don’t really know what it is or what you need to have or not have to qualify, but I pass by a billboard on my way to work every day that has an ad for some kind of state insurance program called County Care. So let’s search that up and see what we can find!” She tip-taps at the keys, her perfectly pink and white French-tipped nails clicking against the plastic. “Let’s see.” She leans in a little closer to the screen and squints at the screen.

“Oh, I should have grabbed my reading glasses. Hm.” She scrolls down, clicks on a few things. You sit, silently, hands in your lap, twisting your fingers and bouncing your leg.

“Ah, here!” You finally look up and try to lean over to look at the screen without pushing into her space. She’s taller than you, and probably stronger, but she’s still a woman and you’re a weird man in her house, alone, and you don’t want to freak her out. She turns the screen toward you.

“All you have to do is call this number and answer some questions!” she grins. “Do you have any jobs?”

“No,” you murmur, rubbing at your face. “I. I lost my last one about three weeks before Kylie kicked me out and haven’t been able to find anything new. ‘Cause of the holidays, you know? Everyone has all the people they need.”

“That’s okay, honey, that’s okay,” Angie says gently, patting your bouncing knee. The tension in your throat starts to loosen, just a bit, “That means you’ll definitely be eligible. And your health always has to come first. Ronan and I aren’t rich by a long shot, but we have enough. You can stay on our couch while you get yourself together, and once you’re in treatment, you can start looking for work.”

You nod. Your hands are tight on your legs, your whole upper body rocking back and forth, now. You squeeze your eyes closed. You’re not used to taking in so much information so fast while sober. It all rushes around in your head like whitewater, fast and violent and choppy and impossible to stay on top of.

“One thing at a time, honey,” Angie says gently. She puts her laptop to the side and heads into the kitchen, coming back with her phone. “Here. You can use my phone number and our address for health and work stuff, okay? I don’t want you bringing people around -- if you want to see friends, you’ll have to go to them -- but you can have mail sent here if you need to. They’re going to need an address to send your letter to. Let me see. Oh!” She huffs an exasperated laugh at herself. “Let me get my reading glasses. I’ll be right back.”

You reach out for the laptop. Hesitate. Pick it up gently, as if the simple act of you touching it will break it, like you’ve broken everything. You bring it over to your lap and scroll through the County Care page Angie has open.

Oh, it’s Sunday, isn’t it. You’ll have to call tomorrow. It doesn’t look like you need much because you’re unemployed, just a social security number and shit. You don’t have your card anymore, but you have it memorized.

A soft tone comes from your phone. It’s charging and back on again. Angie left her phone out here but --

“Okay, let’s see -- oh! It’s Sunday, isn’t it? Oh, barbeque sauce.” She plops down beside you and says, “I guess you’ll have to call tomorrow morning. Maybe that’s better, though. Give you a day to settle in and get your head together, yeah?”

You nod. Glance back at the screen. A little past 10:00 a.m. Funshine and Smarty will be sleeping, still.

“Can I use your phone later today to get in touch with my friends?” you ask timidly. “The ones I was going to try to stay with? They might still not be able to make room, but I just want them to know I’m okay.”

Angie smiles and gently pats your shoulder. “Of course, honey. Just let me know when you need the phone.”

Her touch is so gentle yet so sure, like the big sister you never had, like your older cousins never treated you. And her smile! She’s been smiling so much, and even when they’re sad, each smile still seems so genuine.

The two of you sit and talk together for the next few hours. Sometimes neither of you says anything at all. But the two hours till noon pass pleasantly, and it actually gets to near 12:15 before you notice because you’re not clockwatching as closely as you were last night.

Angie gives you her phone when you ask, and she stands and walks over to the living room. She’s giving you privacy even though she doesn’t have to.

You copy Funshine’s number from your cell to Angie’s, and you make the call.

You gnaw on your thumbnail as the phone rings. And rings. And rings.

Your heart finally starts to crack when it goes to her voicemail. You leave one.

“Hi, Funshine, Smarty, it’s Jen. I. It’s a long story so maybe we can meet for coffee or something in the next few days. I’m safe. Kylie turned off my phone so I have to use this one for now. Call back whatever number is left on your call ID?” You pull the phone away from your cheek. Hesitate. Bring it back.

“I love you both, okay? Ignore any facebook messages until we can talk.”

Another pause, another hesitation.

You hang up.

When you look up, the living room is empty. The soft clatter of dishes bounces around the kitchen and into your ears.

The phone rings.

You scramble for your phone to check the number against the one you have stored for Funshine. Angie comes in as you fumble it and drop it to the couch.

“Oh, sweetie, sweetie, it’s okay,” she says. She picks up her phone. Her brow furrows a little at the unknown number, but she answers anyway.

“Angie Daw speaking.”

You curl back into the pile of pillows you slept in last night, still in a haphazard nest. Angie’s brow relaxes and she smiles.

“Oh, yes! This is the phone he called from. He’s right here, let me get him for you.”

She hands the phone over and you look up at her, afraid and helpless, almost afraid that if you answer, Funshine will say she’s leaving you, too. But she’d never. Would she? She’s been your friend since high school.

“Hello?”

“Jen-jen! Oh, thank god, thank god.” Funshine’s voice catches in her throat. Is she crying?

“We tried calling you but your phone got turned off and we didn’t know how to find you or get in touch and we were so scared and --”

“I’m okay,” you reassure her. “I… I wasn’t for a while. But I am now. Angie, the woman who answered the phone?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m staying with her and her fiancé while I get back on my feet.”

“What happened to your cousins?”

“They left town. Never told me.”

Funshine hisses through her teeth. “Jesus. Jen, I’m so sorry.”

Silence for a few moments. Funshine seems to realize that’s a path you don’t want to go down, so she continues.

“So, how do you know her? Angie, I mean. And her fiancé?”

You bite your lip. Breathe in sharply through your nose.

“Jen? You there?”

“Sorry.” It comes out in a burst of breath. “It’s a long story. One I’d rather tell you and Smarty in person. What does your afternoon look like?”

“Let’s see, just past noon,” she mumbles to herself. Then, a little louder: “Um… I’m running some errands for Smarty’s parents a little later, but it doesn’t matter when as long as I’m back by 5:00 with groceries.”

“Can we get coffee somewhere? I’m staying downtown right now, but I know it’s tough to find good parking, so I don’t mind bussing somewhere that’s easier for Smarty.”

“Of course, Jen-jen,” Funshine says. “Of course. Where?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Out in River Grove.”

“Um… how about the quick Vietnamese place by the mall? The one that used to be the coffee shop we always went to? Have you eaten?” You can’t expect them to buy you lunch, but they should be able to get themselves something, if they want.

“That’s fine,” she says, but there’s something soft and faraway about it, like she’s not really in the conversation.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Your voice is a soft almost-whimper. “We… if you don’t want to see me --”

“Shut the fuck up.” Funshine’s voice is firm, but friendly. “You’re my bff. That last f stands for _forever_. Of course I want to see you. We both do. Smarty hasn’t stopped staring at the phone since I called you back.”

“Then… is something wrong?” you ask hesitantly.

“We were really scared we’d never find you again, Jen,” Funshine blurts.

“You’d have eventually remembered about facebook,” you murmur, trying to keep the conversation light, but you can’t keep the sadness from your tone.

“Maybe not until it was too late,” she whispers, and you wonder if she checked your messages before calling you back, even though you told her not to. A long, long pause. “Mouse’s grave was really that big a mess?”

If she saw that, she saw your suicide note. But she’s not calling you out on it, at least for now. Small mercies.

“Can we see each other today? You and Smarty and me?” There’s an edge in your voice, something scared and desperate for any normal piece of your old life back. Maybe you still can’t stay with them. Maybe you shouldn’t. If you want to be good enough for Kylie, you _have_ to quit.

With Angie and Ronan, you have a warm place to sleep and three meals a day and a potential road to getting sober. With Funshine and Smartypants you have relapse over relapse and a too-high turnover rate of shitty jobs. But they love you. They love you so much, and you love them.

That’s why you don’t ask to talk to Smartypants. Why you don’t ask if you can stay with them. Because you love them and they love you, and you’ll ruin each other.

The phone call doesn’t last much longer. You agree to meet in an hour, mostly for your travel. When you hang up, you finally look up from your lap to see Angie standing near you, but not so close that she’s violating your space. One arm is crossed over her stomach, hand gripping the wrist opposite. She’s very carefully not looking at you, clearly trying to give you space without letting her phone out of her sight.

“Thank you,” you finally say. She looks up at you and her smile returns. She nods once and sits down beside you, taking her phone when you hand it over.

“May I see yours?” she asks.

Your brow furrows.

“Oh!” She chuckles a little at herself. “I just want to put my and Ronan’s numbers in in case you need to call or text. I know you don’t have any minutes, but you can maybe use your friend’s phone?”

You nod, and the tension in your chest begins to unknot.

After she adds their numbers and hands your phone back, you bite your lip in thought. Should you even ask? She’d say yes, you know she would, but would it be even be a good idea?

Angie gently puts her hand on your knee. It’s warm, even through the thick fabric of the sweatpants Ronan let you borrow.

“Are you okay?”

“Can I make one more call?” you blurt out, before you can start second guessing yourself.

“Of course!” Angie says. She hands her phone back to you. “You take as long as you need, okay, honey? I’ll be right back.”

And she disappears into the bedroom.

You scroll through your contacts. Stop on K. Look at his name for a good thirty seconds before you dial the number in Angie’s phone.

You press send.

A long, long wait. It stretches on for hours, for days maybe, without ringing. Then, finally, an automated voice says,

_The number you have dialed is not in service at this time. If --_

You hang up.

Kylie’s number is shut off, too. The phone bill _was_ your responsibility when you were together, but it was in his name because he had better credit. Did they shut you both off for non-payment? Or did he shut them both off and get a new plan?

The tears in your eyes are hot and sting of salt, because the whys don’t matter. That’s your last chance to get in touch with him, gone.

You wipe at your face with your knuckles and pinch the bridge of your nose hard, taking in a deep breath through clenched teeth. You don’t know how long you sit there like that until Angie comes back out into the living room, feet light on the carpeted floor.

“Jen?” she whispers. “Jen, sweetie, are you okay?”

You nod, but you don’t speak, because then you really will cry.

She sits down beside you and loosely wraps her arm around your shoulders, curling her fingers in your sleeve, and you break. You lose it. Three days of hell and trying to keep it together only for it to all add up to mean nothing. You bury your face in your hands and sob the heavy, bone-racking sobs that can only come with being completely broken, and Angie, this sweet, wonderful stranger, holds you through it all.

And you don’t know how you end up curled up in her lap like a child begging for his mother’s comfort, but she lets you stay with your nose buried in her shoulder and her arms wrapped tight around your middle. You also don’t know how long you cry, only that she’s still there when you’re finally calm again. She pulls the sleeve of her sweater over her knuckles and gently wipes your face. You flinch away, afraid of damaging her clothes.

“Sorry,” you manage to choke. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles at you, sadly, and hooks your hair behind your ear.

“It’s okay. That’s been building up for a while, huh?”

You sniffle and nod, wiping at your nose with the back of your wrist. The collar of her shirt is wet where you’d buried your face, marring the otherwise perfect pink fabric. You gently pat at it with your sleeve, as if that’s enough to dry it out. “Sorry,” you repeat.

Angie gently moves your hand away from her shoulder and scoots you out of her lap to sit beside her on the couch again.

“It’s okay. You’ve had a hard couple of days. A lot of people might not have even survived what you did.”

A deep, shaky breath. You finally lift your chin to look into her soft brown eyes, and she gently ruffles your hair, like you’re her little brother who just got out of some big trouble.

“I wasn’t trying to be nosy, but I did hear that you’re going to meet your friends soon, so why don’t you come with me and I’ll do my best to find you some clothes that fit.”


	13. Chapter 13

The clothes Angie loans you are nicer than anything you’ve ever owned in your adult life, and they’re not even fancy. It’s just a long sleeved Henley of Ronan’s and a pair of her jeans -- his were all too big -- and the warmest jacket you’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing. You make your way to the nearest Blue Line stop and head to Irving Park, because it’s faster than going via Harlem.

As you make your way from the corner you can see Funshine’s familiar hatchback in the parking lot, but it’s empty, so they must be inside.

Your phone sits heavy in your pocket, waiting for a call from Kylie that will never come, but you try not to think about that.

The inside of the shop is dim, but not uncomfortably so, and Funshine and Smartypants are sitting across from each other sipping at their boba tea. You glance at the menu. It doesn’t look like they have soymilk. Oh well.

Smartypants’s back is to you, and Funshine just happens to glance up and catch sight of you. A bright grin spreads over her mouth and she puts her boba down and waves.

“Jen-jen!” she cries, even though the shop is tiny and you could easily hear her otherwise.

You lift a hand, half wave, let it drop. Try to smile, because you’re seeing your best friends again. Can’t bring yourself to mean it, because you’re so, _so_ tired.

Her smile fades and she jumps up, nearly knocking her chair to the floor. Smartypants looks over his shoulder, and when he sees her wrap you up in a hug, he unlocks his wheelchair and turns around to face you. He still gives you space.

You collapse in Funshine’s arms. She’s warm and comforting and familiar and safe, everything you’ve needed more than anything these past three long days. She smells like green apple dish soap and a little bit like weed and she’s wearing a sweatshirt at least two sizes too big for a school she never went to, and she’s _here_ and she loves you. At least someone does.

She presses her cheek to yours and takes a step back, but she doesn’t let go of your arms. For a few moments you just… take her in, then turn to Smartypants and do the same. They’re the same as they ever were.

Smartypants hesitantly wheels a little closer and Funshine finally lets you go so you can hug him, too. It doesn’t last as long because you have to bend at a painful angle, but you still want to, because he’s here and he loves you, too.

When you let go and stand up straight again, Smarty nods toward the table. “Come sit with us. Are you hungry?”

You clasp your hands together in front of your chest like a begging child, playing with your fingers and picking at your nails.

“Jen-jen?” Funshine says gently. “I can get you something. They have a tofu sandwich.”

Your gaze drops to your feet, but you nod, because you are hungry, and if the past three days have taught you anything, it’s never to take another person’s kindness for granted.

Funshine gently squeezes your arm and shares a worried look with Smartypants, but neither of them say anything. She drops her hand and heads to the counter to order for you. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to follow.

“Sit with me?”

You look down at Smartypants, at his familiar brown eyes and lilac hair. The black roots are starting to show. He’s had so much going on, with the fire and all, he probably hasn’t had the time. He gives you a hopeful smile. You smile back, pull out the chair next to him, and plop down. A little groan leaves your mouth when your feet let go of the pressure of the ground. You had to stand your whole ride here, and it was exhausting. You just didn’t realize it until you were allowed to admit it.

Smartypants adjusts his chair and locks the break, then turns to you. He flinches.

“Your shoulder?” you ask gently.

He opens his scrunched closed eyes and nods.

“Yeah. It’s been really bad. I ran out of my meds this morning and have another week and a half before I can fill it.”

You swallow hard.

You have no way to get in touch with Kylie anymore. He’s out of your life. You don’t have to get better for him. You could just… slip back into your old habits with Smartypants and Funshine, only go back to Ronan and Angie’s place after you’ve sobered up.

Because what’s the point of being sober, anyway?

Funshine comes back, then, with a bottle of water that she plops down in front of you. “They’ll bring it out when it’s ready,” she says. Neither she nor Smartypants touch the rest of their sandwiches, waiting to eat with you.

You take a long sip of the water, slosh it around your dry mouth a little before you swallow.

“Thank you,” you finally say.

Funshine beams. She’s so kind, so generous. Always looking out for her friends. How could Kylie have hated her so much?

“Now,” she says gently. “What happened? Where were you? Are you okay? Are you safe with this Angie person and her fiancé?”

“I can try my moms again,” Smartypants says. “If I push enough, I’ll probably be able to get them to agree to let you stay.”

It comes out of your mouth unbidden. “It would probably be best if I stay with Angie and Ronan. There are a lot more job opportunities downtown.”

Funshine wilts a little. Smartypants gently pats your arm.

“Okay,” Funshine says softly. A pause. “I miss you, Jen-jen. What happened? What were all those facebook messages about?”

Your mouth goes dry. “You checked them.”

“After I got your message, yeah.”

Smartypants’s hand tightens on your arm, not uncomfortably so. Reassuring.

You glance up to see a young woman bringing out your sandwich. You don’t speak. She smiles at you and says, “Enjoy!” but your mouth is so dry you can’t get out a thank you.

Funshine and Smartypants are still completely ignoring their sandwiches, staring at you, obviously wanting answers but too nervous to push you for them.

You take another drink of water, clear your throat, and begin to speak.

 

It can’t take hours, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like it.

You tell them everything. About sleeping behind dumpsters and in parking garages, about having your stuff stolen, about Mouse’s grave, about your overdose.

About waking up in the hospital with two strangers who, for some reason, decided to give you a chance.

“Oh my god, Jen-jen,” Funshine whispers when you finally finish. She grabs your hand and buries her nose in your palm, like she’s trying to be sure you’re really here. From beside you, Smartypants hooks his elbow around your upper arm and tugs you and your chair closer.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t check our messages,” Smartypants chokes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Funshine still has your hand, and now she’s crying, and there are tears threatening in Smartypants’s eyes. There are tears threatening in yours.

“Jen-jen, I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that alone,” Funshine hiccups. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“If I had known I’d have --” Smartypants starts, but you interrupt him.

“You had no way to know,” you say. “I knew facebooking you was a long shot. I know you never check it. I was just. On the off chance. If.”

But the lump in your throat keeps growing and growing and soon you can’t get any words out at all, and the three of you are crying into your sandwiches while you hold each other’s wrists and arms.

Your food is cold by the time you all calm down, and Funshine’s and Smartypants’s must be even colder, but you’re not picky anymore. You still won’t eat dairy or meat because it’d probably make you throw up, but cold tofu? Hell yeah, you’ll eat that.

You eat in huge bites, chomping down on the bread, getting multiple peppers that burn your tongue all at once, but you can’t help it because it’s _so good_.

Smartypants puts his sandwich down and gently rests his hand on your forearm.

“Hey,” he says. “Slow down. Nobody’s going to take it away if you eat it slower. You’re going to choke on it.”

You can’t respond because you just took a bite that’s almost too big for your mouth. You chew it as best you can and swallow it in chunks, then wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand. Funshine hands you a napkin and you flush in embarrassment. You were only on the streets three days and you’re acting like an animal.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and even though you turn your gaze down, you don’t miss the worried glance Funshine and Smartypants share. You wipe at your mouth and hands with the napkin and drop it next to the basket your food came in. For a long moment, you stare at the remainder of your sandwich. You ate like this with Angie, too, even though she and Ronan fed you last night.

Maybe you’re just… not expecting it to last. Each meal could be the last time you eat for weeks. You _have_ to get it down before the world can take it away.

It doesn’t take long for you to switch the conversation back to Funshine’s and Smartypants’s situation. They’re sleeping in the living room, Smartypants on the couch and Funshine on the floor, and Funshine wakes up with her back feeling like shit every morning but Smartypants’s oldest sister is going to school for massage therapy so at least Funshine gets that out of it.

Smartypants finishes the rest of his milk tea and hands you the plastic cup with the rest of the tapioca pearls at the bottom.

You take it hesitantly, looking down at your hands. “You don’t like it?”

He grins at you and says, “It’s good! I just know you really like them.”

You crack a weak smile and nod, then slurp them up through the huge straw one by one.

You can see them looking at each other, back at you again. The dark circles under their eyes and smeared eyeliner. Funshine isn’t wearing any lipstick at all, not even the smudged orange or red she prefers.

Maybe the days have been harder on you, but they’ve been hard on your friends, too.

Finally, after you swallow the last tapioca pearl and only a bite of your sandwich remains, you blurt, “Angie says her only condition for me staying with them is I get sober.”

Funshine fumbles her cup and almost spills her smoothie all over the table, and she and Smartypants’s heads whirl toward you. They stare at you a long, long moment before Funshine smiles crookedly and says, “You’re just fucking with us.”

Your heart goes cold in your chest.

“Her, uh, her fiancé. Ronan.” You pick up the last bite of your sandwich, put it right back down. “I don’t know the details and they’re not my business anyway but apparently he struggled with drugs when he was younger. She’s afraid if I come back high or bring in drugs it could trigger a relapse. Which, you know, that’s fair.”

Smartypants glances over at Funshine. Her brow is furrowed, the corners of her mouth turned down.

“You’re…. you’re not going to stop hanging out with us, right?” she asks, small and nervous and everything she should never have to be.

You drop the last bit of your sandwich, halfway to your mouth, and it falls apart in the basket. “No!”

Funshine’s hands are curled up in her lap, so you can’t reach, but you grab Smartypants’s forearm and repeat, “No! Never! You’re my best friends! Like, whatever, how could I judge you for doing stuff I did right alongside you?”

“Promise?” Funshine’s lower lip trembles. Smartypants’s hands are fisted on the table on either side of his empty sandwich basket, and muscle in his arm is tight. You slide your hand down to rest on top of his, and he relaxes a little.

“I promise. You two are my best friends. Nothing you could do could get me to leave.”

Smartypants snorts a little, but it’s a wet sound in his throat, and he wipes at his nose with one of the few clean napkins left. He cringes a little and you let go of his hand so he can get his shoulder in a more comfortable position.

Once he gets comfortable again, he changes the conversation to a lighter topic, and even though Funshine frowns -- does she want to talk about all this _more_? -- you’re so, so grateful. Breakfast with Angie was nice, but the talk was heavy, and aside from your forty-five minutes of zoning out on your ride here, it’s been nothing but heavy all day.

You ask Smartypants about his family. You met them back when you were dating him and Funshine, but after the accident, after everything went to shit, (after you ran off because you couldn’t face it), they stopped wanting anything to do with you. But before that, they were always good to you. So you check in, anyway.

They’re fine, he says, nothing new. All of his grandparents and his oldest sister’s husband and two kids are living there now, so there really is just _no space_ for anyone else.

“It won’t stop me from trying,” Smartypants says, but you tell him not to worry about it. It’d be too much noise, too much going on, and you can’t handle that kind of stimulation without your Adderall. And if there are kids there, and you won’t have anything you can lock stuff away in?

You’re not going to take on that kind of responsibility.

You sit and talk for hours. But eventually it starts to get dimmer outside, not nighttime dark, but stormy grey.

“I should get going,” you say. It’s hesitant. Funshine’s and Smartypants’s faces fall. But Funshine follows your gaze out the window, over Smartypants’s shoulder, and she sighs softly, a quick puff of air from pursed lips.

“You’re right,” she says reluctantly. “I don’t want you to get caught in this shit weather.” She turns to you and says, “Can I at least drive you back to the Blue Line?”

You look to Smartypants. “Is that okay?” The cold makes his shoulder act up even worse, and if he doesn’t have any more pills…

He smiles at you, soft. “Of course,” he says.

You and Funshine stand, and Smartypants unlocks his brake and wheels himself backward, then turns toward the edge of the table, where you and Funshine are standing.

She hugs you.

“I’m gonna miss the parties with you, Jen-jen,” she says gently. “But I’m so glad you’re mostly doing okay.” She tugs you a little closer. “As okay as you can be.”

She kisses your cheek, and it’s _so easy_ to turn into it and press your mouth to hers. It’s soft, chaste, but she locks up for just half a moment before she nudges you back. It’s gentle, barely a touch, but you still lose your footing and stumble a step back. A small, hurt noise punches out of your chest and she puts her hands on your shoulders, rests her forehead against yours.

“But… that’s what you wanted, right?” you whisper, tiny, scared. “You and Smarty, that’s what --”

“You’re really fucked up right now, Jen-jen,” Funshine whispers back. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

She gently tilts your head down and presses her chapped lips to the top of your head, warm and familiar. You wrap your arms around your stomach, and Smartypants hooks his thumb in your belt loop. You don’t open your eyes, because you don’t want them to see you crying.

“If you want to get clean, we’ll support you,” he says. “Just… we’ll have to start making plans a day or two in advance so we don’t show up high and fuck it up for you.”

You breathe in deep through your nose and finally let go of yourself. One more breath. You drop your hand to Smartypants’s, still on your hip.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah.”

Smartypants unhooks his thumb from your belt loop and squeezes your hand, then drops it into his lap. You open your eyes and turn to him when he hisses to see a grimace on his face.

“Smarty?” Funshine lifts her head and looks over. Her eyes widen and she gently nudges you to the side, not far, just enough to get through to him. She kneels in front of him and takes his hands, looking up at his face.

“You okay?” you ask, just as Funshine says, “What’s wrong?”

Smarty shakes his head. “It’s just this… just this stupid shoulder.” He grinds his words out through gritted teeth. His breathing is staggered.

“Please let me push you back to the car?” Funshine asks, gently.

A long pause. Finally, Smartypants nods.

“Give me your keys?” You put your hand out, palm up. Funshine looks up at you, brow drawn.

“I’ll get the car started and the heat going,” you explain. “I know the cold makes it worse.”

Funshine stands and digs through her purse, finally handing you the keys.

“I’ll just take the bus,” you add quietly. “Smarty needs to get back.”

Smartypants looks up at you, guilt in every line on his frowning face. “Jen, no, really, it’s fine, it’s --“

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, hoping that’s not off limits now that you’ve gone and kissed Funshine. Neither of them makes any indication they’re upset.

You loop the keyring around your finger and rush out to the car so they can’t look at you with that sadness in their eyes anymore.

Even just sitting in the driver’s seat makes your heart race, a nervous lump in your throat so big you’ll never be able to swallow it. You turn the heat all the way up but the air still blasts out cold. You tug the scarf Angie loaned you closer around you neck.

Funshine and Smartypants wait inside the restaurant for your cue, even though you forgot to tell them to. They know. They’ll always know. They’re your best friends.

Finally the air starts coming out warm, and you open the door and jump out of the seat like it’s burned you. You wave until you catch their eyes, then gesture them out.

Normally, unrushed, with no cold or cops on your tail, Smartypants would pull himself into the passenger’s seat. But when he lifts his arm for leverage, he flinches and drops it rubbing at his shoulder with his other hand.

“Let me help you,” Funshine says, her voice wet in her throat. “Please, Smarty, I know you like to do it by yourself but usually you aren’t this bad --”

“Okay,” he whispers. Funshine tucks one arm under his knees and curls the other around his back, lifting him easily and plopping him in the seat.

“I’ll take care of your chair,” Funshine says.

“I know.” Smartypants is turned away from you, but you can hear the relief in his voice.

Finally, you shut the driver’s door and meet Funshine around the back where she’s loading up the wheelchair. You stay out of the way, because if you try to help, you’ll just make it more complicated.

Right before she shuts the trunk, you whisper, “I’m sorry, Funshine.”

She closes it and turns toward you. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, a little louder. “About just now. In the restaurant. I should have asked.”

Her face relaxes, but goes a little sad at the same time. She pulls you into a hug, guiding your face to her shoulder. The outside of her coat is already cold.

She presses her cheek to the top of your head and says, “I just… you’re really vulnerable right now,” she whispers. “I want you to be okay. I don’t want… I don’t want to make it worse. And… if you’re getting sober -- or, at least, trying to -- we’ll just make it harder. I want you to be happy, Jen, whatever that is.” She turns her head and presses her nose into your hat, and continues, “If you’re not going to let us give you a ride, you should get going before this weather gets any worse.”

“Yeah,” you murmur.

You both stand there in each other’s arms a moment longer, and you try not to cling when she pushes you away.


	14. Chapter 14

Ronan is home when you get back. When you open the door with the spare key Angie gave you, he and Angie are sitting at the table eating. Angie’s back is to you, and she looks over her shoulder with a smile as Ronan sits up a little straighter to look over her head.

“Did you enjoy your visit?” Angie asks.

You close the door behind you and press your gloved hands against it behind your back. The muscle memory of standing like that the last time you saw Kylie burns you, and you jerk your hands away, curling them in front of yourself a moment before you pull the gloves off finger by finger.

“Enjoy is a word,” you murmur. Angie’s face falls and Ronan’s brow furrows.

“Jen?” Ronan asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was fine,” you say quickly. You pull your boots off and leave them on the mat by the door so you don’t damage the hardwood floors. They’re not going to want reminders of you after they finally get sick of you and kick you out. “I, um. Is it okay if I use the shower? It’s snowing pretty heavy out there and --”

“Of course, honey,” Angie interrupts gently. “You never have to give us an explanation for things like that.”

Ronan covers his mouth a moment as he finishes chewing, and when he’s swallowed his food he says, “When you’re done, I’d like to talk to you about some things, okay?”

A cold shockwave shoots through your body, even though you’re still wearing Ronan’s jacket, even though the heat is on, even though it’s maybe seventy degrees here in the apartment.

“What --” But you choke on your whisper and have to clear your throat. “What about?”

Ronan puts his fork down and turns in his chair to better look at you. “My NA group has meetings Sunday and Wednesday evenings,” he explains. “I usually only go once or twice a month now, but if you wanted me to go with you--?” He leaves it hanging, for you to reach for if you want.

“What’s an NA?” you ask.

“Narcotics Anonymous,” Ronan explains. “Like AlAnon but for drugs. We can set you up with a sponsor if you’re willing to commit.”

“What does it cost?”

Ronan smiles at you. “It’s free.”

You curl your fingers at the hem of the jacket. It’s far, far too warm now, with the heater on and beating through all your layers. You take off the scarf, barely stopping before you wipe at your face with it. That’s Angie’s. You don’t want to muck up her clothes.

“Think about it while you clean up,” Ronan finally says. “We have two hours and it’s not too far if we take the car.”

You hesitate. Think about starting to unzip the jacket.

“Just think about it,” Ronan repeats.

So you nod, and you remove the jacket and scarf and hang them on the pegs by the door, and shuffle into the bathroom.

Ronan drops his voice and says something to Angie you can’t catch, but then, if it’s none of your business, it doesn’t matter, does it?

The bathroom is small, but still bigger than the one you shared with Kylie. Your throat catches as if you’re about to say his name aloud. Even _thinking_ it has that effect on you. You sigh and click the lock behind you, shuffle the towels around so the one you used last night is closest to the shower, turn on the water to let it get hot before you step in.

You stick your tongue out at your reflection in the mirror. It still has a film from the mayonnaise on the sandwich you ate earlier, so you grab the toothbrush Angie and Ronan gave you last night and open the medicine cabinet for the toothpaste, and, more importantly, getting rid of your reflection.

It takes a moment of digging around. You accidentally knock two medication bottles into the sink with the back of your hand. Find the toothpaste behind them, put it to the side and pick up the bottles to put away.

They’re orange with childproof white lids.

Prescription drugs.

It’s none of your business.

You have to sate your curiosity, anyway.

You squint at the label on the smaller one in the dim bathroom light. It’s Ronan’s. Xanax, one-milligram pills. Your fingers tighten on the bottle and you stare at it for a few seconds. Would he notice if one or two went missing? Just to help take the edge off?

Your eyes dart over the instructions. Twice a day, every day. Not PRN. He’d notice.

You squeeze your eyes closed and pinch the bridge of your nose.

Jen, are you _seriously_ thinking of stealing prescription meds from one of the people who was kind enough to get you off the street?

You put it up with shaking hands, but now you’re curious, and you have to know what the other one is, if it’s anything you could --

It’s Angie’s. You half recognize the name of the medication, but from where --

It’s the testosterone blocker Funshine takes. Angie is transgender?

Oh, shit, oh, god, you are an _asshole_. Her gender and transition are none of your business and she and Ronan have opened their home to you and here you are snooping around in their shit.

You shove it back into the medicine cabinet and close it, squirt far too much toothpaste onto your toothbrush, and shove it in your mouth. You close the cabinet door, leaving the toothpaste out so you can’t be tempted again.

You just won’t mention this to either of them. To anyone. If Angie wants to come out to you, she will, and if she doesn’t, you won’t make her feel cornered. And if Ronan found out you were even briefly considering stealing some of his meds, you’d be out on the street before you could pull on your boots.

Spit, rinse your mouth, jump in the almost too hot shower.

And for a long, long time, you just stand there, letting the water beat some sense back into you.

You stay there until the heat makes you lightheaded. You drape your towel across the toilet lid so you can sit, and use a second one you found to dry your hair. Your fingers are thick and heavy when you try to comb through the delicate tangles, flinching with every catch and pull. It’ll be impossible to get all this out without a comb or a brush.

But you do the best you can, and you finish drying off, and you put on the same clothes you wore in because of course you’ll do your own laundry, but they’ll have to pay for it, and it’s not fair to make them wash clothes that are practically clean over and over again.

Ronan and Angie are still sitting at the table when you come out, but they’ve cleaned up their dishes and are now just talking quietly. When the bathroom door closes behind you with a soft click, they both turn to look at you.

“Have you--” Ronan begins, but Angie interrupts with, “Oh, honey, your hair! Do you need to borrow a comb?”

Angie’s question is easier to deal with than the one you know Ronan was about to ask, so you hunch your shoulders in toward your chest a little as you answer, “Yeah, please. I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to, so I just used my fingers.” You straighten up a little and lift your chin. “I don’t have lice or anything! I just. It’s your stuff and I didn’t know if you’d want me touching it.”

Like you put your grubby hands all over their medications.

Angie stands and you take a step back as she approaches you. She passes by you and gently lays her hand on your upper arm, and she says, “You can borrow one of my brushes. I think that would be better for your long hair.”

You turn with her as she enters the bathroom, but otherwise don’t move until she comes back and puts a bright pink brush in your hand. Immediately, you run it through your hair, pulling at the tangles with your teeth grit. Angie swipes the brush away again and says, “No, no, you’re going to hurt yourself! Here, sit on the floor in front of the couch and I’ll brush it for you.”

Your eyes go wide. Nobody’s brushed your hair for you since you dated Funshine and Smartypants so long ago.

Angie’s smile falters. “Do you not want me to?” she asks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed --”

Your hands shoot up in front of you, like a barrier. “No!” you exclaim. “I mean, yes, I would like that. It’s just. Nobody’s offered to do that for me for a long time.

Her smile grows a little stronger. She sits on the couch and drops a pillow between her feet. “Then come sit, and I’ll get those tangles out.”

You do. She’s barely pulled the brush through your hair when Ronan stands and walks past you. You don’t look up, eyes on the hems of the legs of his jeans and his black socks. A door creaks open. The bedroom, you think, but it’s none of your business.

You grunt when the hairbrush catches on a particularly nasty clump of tangles and Angie hisses. “Sorry, Jen, sorry,” she says. She works the brush out and puts it to the side, going in with her hands to try to break the tangle as best she can.

“Oh, Jen,” she says softly, sadly. You tilt your head back to look up at her.

“What?” It’s quiet, nervous.

“Your poor hair is so brittle and broken in so many places!” she says. She gently tilts your head forward again so she can continue to work through it. “Your poor dead ends are inches and inches long.” She pauses, pulling and tugging at the tangle as gently as you suppose she can.

“Have you thought about cutting it?”

You whirl around, grabbing at your hair and fumbling back so hard you fall off the pillow. Angie’s eyes are even wider than yours.

“Okay, I’ll take that as a no.” She smiles at you and picks up the brush again, gesturing you over with her other hand. “I won’t do anything to it if you don’t want,” she says. “But think about it, all right? If you cut off all the dead ends, at least, it will grow longer and healthier faster. But I won’t try to make you do anything, okay honey?”

Your hands loosen on your hair and you nod. She taps the pillow with her foot.

“Now, come back here and let me fix your hair.”

Eventually, she finally gets through the tangled clump, only to find another, work through that, and find another. She’s finally got it down to just a few small ones when Ronan comes back out of the bedroom. He stops in front of you, crosses his feet, lowers himself to the floor and into a crosslegged sit. He hands you a pamphlet and puts some other papers and little books to the side.

“This was the first thing my NA group gave me when I first started. It’s a Twelve Step program, like AA’s but focusing on drug addiction.”

Your reaction is automatic. You offer it back and say, “Oh, no, I’m not addicted to anything.”

Ronan doesn’t take the paper back. He just looks at you, carefully and thoughtfully, and asks, “Do you like your life better when you’re high?”

This feels like a trap, but you answer anyway, slowly and carefully. “I… guess so? I mean, it’s only because I can’t treat my actual problems, because I don’t have insurance so I can’t get a doctor and stuff, and --”

The more you go on, the weaker your excuses get. Your face burns under Ronan’s gaze, serious but nonjudgmental. Finally, you trail off and look at the pamphlet, wrinkling slightly under your tight hold.

“So if we got you set up with a doctor, you’d quit?”

You open your mouth. The lie is ready on your tongue. But with Angie’s fingers gently working through your hair, Ronan’s sock covered toes barely touching yours, you can’t bring yourself to say it. You close your mouth and swallow, looking down at your hands in your lap.

“Come with me at least once,” Ronan says, gently. “Staying clean while you’re here is all well and good, but if you’re going to start again after you leave, you’ll likely just end up back where we found you again. You understand that, right?”

“Sober.” It comes out abruptly, with no thought.

“What?”

“Staying sober while I’m here is all well and good. Drugs don’t make you dirty.”

Ronan looks at you for a long, long moment, then finally nods. He taps the pamphlet in your hands.

“Just let Angie finish your hair and read it, for now. You’re not moving anywhere until she’s done, anyway, and we still have an hour before we’d have to leave.”

You watch his face a few moments. But if you fight him, if you don’t go… they have literally no stake in whether or not you stay. They were already kind enough to let you stay overnight. They have no reason to keep you here past their own generosity and kindness.

So you open it and start to read.

“Our meetings are closed,” Ronan offers as your eyes slide over the text. “That means only addicts --”

“I’m not --”

“Only addicts and users will be there,” he finishes.

At first, the pamphlet looks okay. What you’d expect from a recovery group. But then you get to the Twelve Steps, and -- “This looks really… Jesus-y.”

Angie and Ronan both chuckle, and you look up at Ronan to be let in on the joke.

“I thought that at first, too,” he says. “I was nervous about going because I thought they’d all be judgmental zealots. But just… substitute the word ‘God’ with the concept of a higher power. It can be anything. Whatever version of God you believe in, if you have one. An angel, if you believe in that. A better version of yourself, even.”

A version of yourself that deserves to be with Kylie.

You don’t know why you’re still so obsessed with the idea of him taking you back. Both your phones have been cut off. He’s blocked your email. He doesn’t have a facebook. The only way you can contact him is to go back to the apartment, and he made it very clear you aren’t welcome.

But maybe you could be. Maybe if you get your shit together, he would welcome you back.

So you nod weakly, shoulders slumped in defeat, and say, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

Angie finally gets all the tangles out about fifteen minutes before you’re supposed to leave, but Ronan surprises you when he says, “Let’s leave a little early. We can stop for coffee.”

“I don’t --” you start, but he smiles at you and continues,

“I know. I’ve got it. After the meeting we’ll stop somewhere to get you some of your own clothes, some that fit right. I don’t mind lending you mine --”

“Neither do I,” Angie interjects.

“But you’ll probably me more comfortable in something that fits you properly. We can’t go crazy, but maybe a pair of jeans and a few shirts. Some socks and stuff.”

You watch his face, wide eyed, as Angie continues to brush through your hair. You open your mouth. Close it again. Feel a lot like a goldfish. Then, finally, you ask, in a very small voice, “Really? You’d do that for me?”

Ronan smiles. “All I ask for in return is that you help us around the apartment a little while you’re here. Doing dishes and sweeping and stuff. We’re mostly pretty neat so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

You want to say ‘thank you,’ a hundred times over, but the lump in your throat won’t let the words pass. So you nod emphatically, trying to push back the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

Ronan and Angie, kind people they are, don’t point it out. Angie runs the brush through your hair one more time, then gently pats your shoulders and says, “If you want to stop for coffee, you’d better get going!”

When you get off the side street, you hit pretty bad traffic. Ronan sighs and says, “Well, I had hoped to take you to this donut place I really like, because they have vegan donuts too, and their coffee’s really good, but it looks like you’ll have to settle for the stuff at the meeting for now. We’ll stop by on the way back.”

You nod. You’ve had your share of shit coffee when you couldn’t afford the good stuff. No big deal.

You don’t know where exactly you’re going until you get there. It’s a community center. Ronan parks in the back and unbuckles his seatbelt. Your hands shake, gripping tightly to your own seatbelt, heart about to hammer out of your ribcage. You’re so high strung you jump when Ronan puts his hand on your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s normal to be nervous. I was scared as hell my first meeting. It gets easier. Just remember, everyone in there has been where you are at some point. People have overdosed, been kicked out of their homes, served jail time. Nothing you can say will shock or scare them. They understand. They don’t judge. They just want to help.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Okay,” you finally manage. You unbuckle your seatbelt and follow Ronan inside.

He leads you through the main area into a big meeting room. There are a few people already there. Coffee and cookies are set out on a table to the side, along with literature for newcomers. People like you. But Ronan seemed to still have everything, so… should you leave it in case someone else needs it?

Ronan gently nudges your elbow and you take a step forward. Another. Another. You sit in the chair, set in a circle, closest to the door. Just in case. Ronan sits down next to you. He turns to the woman on his other side and they make a little small talk.

Normally you wouldn’t mind being the newcomer. Normally you’re good at making friends.

Normally you aren’t at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, either.

You glance nervously around the room, eyes briefly settling on each person as they come in and sit. A woman stands and closes the door. You swallow hard.

She walks back to the circle where her chair is, but she doesn’t sit.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice is somehow very soft but easy to hear. She sounds like a mom might. “My name is Sam, and I’m an addict.”

Your heart is beating so hard and so loud you miss most of what she says next. Something about a moment of silence. Something about a prayer. Something about newcomers.

Ronan nudges your arm with his elbow and whispers, “It’s all right, go ahead.” The soft words finally bring you back into your head. Sam smiles at you. You smile weakly back. You can’t bring yourself to stand. Your knees are so wobbly you’re afraid you’ll fall.

“What… what do I say?” you ask softly.

“Just introduce yourself,” Sam says gently. “Like I did. My name is Sam, and I’m an addict.” She gestures to you.

It feels like hours, but it can’t be longer than seconds. Your heart twists in your chest. You’re going to puke.

Then Ronan gently puts his hand on your back between your shoulder blades, and even though it’s the barest of touches, it pushes out what you need to say.

“Hi. Um. I’m Jen and… and I’m an addict.”


	15. Chapter 15

The next couple days go by too, too slow. It’s almost Christmas. You’ve done everything you know how to do. You did all the stuff Angie told you to do for your insurance and now you have to wait, and wait, and wait. You try to go out looking for work but all anyone says is “check out our website,” so instead you trawl the internet looking for anyone who might be hiring, but you keep failing their stupid personality tests. You look for cheats, stuff to put in your resume, the right ways to answer questions from people who worked at all these places once, but there must be something wrong with you because even though Angie answers her phone with, “Angie Daw speaking,” instead of just “hello,” just in case it’s for you… it never is.

Funshine and Smartypants get back on facebook again, although none of you ever post updates. You only use the messaging client to keep in touch.

A couple days before Christmas, Ronan puts a little ceramic tree out on the table. Slowly but surely, throughout the day, packages pile up around it. Probably none of them are for you.

Where are you going to go on Christmas? They can’t bring you around to their families, and they don’t like it when you hang out at their place alone, but everything will be closed. Smartypants said he desperately wants to invite you, but his moms say no. What do they have against you? Is it because you’re his ex? They know the breakup was amiable and that you’re still friends.

It doesn’t really matter, you guess. The three of you are going to get together for coffee the day after. Your account is still negative, you still have no cash, but Funshine says they’ve got you.

The next NA meeting is cancelled because it’s Christmas Eve. Instead, you stay in with Angie and Ronan around a meal of tom yum gung nam kohn with extra coconut milk instead of cream and shrimp cooked on the side for Angie and Ronan to add as they wish. You eye the shellfish warily from their serving bowl on the table, as if they’re going to come back to life and scramble into your soup. But then, the last time you ate at a table with seafood, you hallucinated a lobster ripping your mother’s face off.

It was easy to stop eating meat after that.

But the shrimp don’t come alive, and your soup is delicious and thick and flavorful and crustacean free, exactly what you need on a cold night in December.

After you finish eating, you stand and start to collect the dishes. That’s become one of your chores, even though they never asked you to take it on. Ronan grabs the bowl with the three remaining shrimp, as if he can sense your hesitance to touch it.

“I’ve got this one,” he says. “I’ll wrap it up for someone to have for a snack later.”

He doesn’t ask why you keep looking at it like it will explode or why you don’t want to touch it, and you’re grateful, because it’s become an unspoken rule and you and Ronan don’t share experiences either of you had while you were high.

Ronan shuffles around the kitchen as you rinse the dishes. They’re lucky enough to have a dishwasher, which you haven’t had since you moved away from your parents, but you still know you can’t just put dishes covered in food in. Angie stays out by the table, wiping it down.

Once you’ve got the dishes loaded, Ronan says your name and nods toward the other room.

“We want to talk to you about tomorrow,” he says. So you follow him back to the table, sitting down as Angie balls up her paper towel and heads into the kitchen to throw it in the trash. When she comes back, they sit across from you. Ronan runs a hand through his shaggy hair.

“We’re going to my moms’ place tomorrow,” he says. “They invite me and Angie every year.”

Your brow furrows. “They? Do you have two moms?”

Ronan’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s trying to read you. “Is that a problem?”

Your hands shoot up and you shake your head adamantly. “No! Of course not. You know I used to have a boyfriend. It’s just one of my other friends has two moms, too, and it’s not something you hear that often. I didn’t mean any offense.”

Ronan’s shoulders relax and Angie puts a hand on his arm. “Sorry.” He smiles bashfully. “Force of habit. A lot of people gave them shit where we used to live. It hasn’t been such a big deal here, usually, though.”

“That’s good,” you offer softly.

“Anyway,” Ronan says, quick to move on with the conversation, “last time we talked you didn’t have plans, and I talked to my family and they said you could come along, if you want.”

You wring your hands in your lap, looking down at your knees.

Ronan scoots to the edge of his chair and moves closer to you. He reaches out, but he can’t quite make it across the table without being awkward. He retracts his hand, loosely curls it, rests his wrist on the table.

“I know it might… I know Angie and I will be the only ones there you know,” Ronan continues. “But it will be small. Just us and them and my siblings, and we don’t… it…”

“You don’t want me here alone all day, and everything is closed,” you say.

“Simply put, yeah,” Ronan says.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Angie continues. “It’s just… it’s okay when I’m working from home or if we just go out for a short while and you can go to the library or something but…”

“But what if I do something stupid while you’re out,” you finish.

“Yeah,” Ronan repeats softly. “It’s not even our meds, because we could just take them with us. It’s just… I know what the beginning is like, when you’re getting sober, and I know being left alone with your thoughts can really screw you up.”

You nod once.

“If nothing else, free food?” Ronan offers. “Everyone in the family eats meat but there will be side dishes and stuff, and they’re all dairy free because of Angie’s allergy.”

You bite your lip. You nod once more. “Okay,” you say, as if you have a choice. Go to a nice family get together or hang out in the freezing cold all day. You turn slightly to look at Angie.

“Are we seeing your family, too?”

Angie’s cheek sucks in a little where she bites it. “No,” she says softly.

“They live out of town?” you ask meekly. Think of the pills you found the other day.

“It’s complicated,” she says.

You shoot her a disarming smile and make an exaggerated shrug. “Well, hey, I know all about complicated, if you ever want to talk.”

She gives you a sad smile and heaves a tired sigh. “Long story short, I’m transgender, and my mom disowned me, and my dad… didn’t go that far, but we don’t talk anymore, either.”

You don’t know if you should act surprised. You’re shit at faking emotions. You want her to know you’re on her side but not that you were snooping around and found some of her meds. Finally you settle on a nod, and a sad, “I’m sorry. My parents stopped talking to me because I didn’t want to go to college, just wanted to work right away and then think about it later. So… it’s a lot different, but I know what it’s like to have your parents ostracize you.” You shrug a shoulder and continue, “But I’m just some cis dude, so, you know, what do I know.”

Angie leans far over the table to rest her fingers on the back of your hand. It must be awkward, but she smiles at you anyway. “This isn’t the oppression olympics, Jen. The end result is the same, so you understand better than most. My hard time doesn’t negate your hard time.” A pause, and then, “Thank you.”

You clear your throat awkwardly. Angie gently squeezes your arm and pulls away, sitting back in the chair with perfect posture: back straight, shoulders down, neck up and eyes forward, where Ronan slouches, puts his forearms on the table and leans his weight there, head angled slightly down unless he’s speaking to someone.

How did you not notice how different they are until now? It’s such a little thing, but it adds up with all the other little things you’ve noticed: Ronan’s dark clothes that are a little too loose and his combat boots, Angie’s pastel and mostly pink and purple tailored clothes and her off-brand, but still stylish Uggs. Ronan’s soft voice and hesitance to smile, Angie’s outgoing speech and her bright, bright face.

You can’t help but wonder how they met, how they started talking, but if you had to guess, you’d think Angie approached Ronan first.

But then, Ronan was the one shaking your leg and trying to wake you up behind a dumpster not so long ago.

If he’s that kind of person, is the rest of his family, too?

Maybe they’ll be okay?

Ronan weaves his fingers together and presses the heels of his hands against each other. “You look nervous.” His voice is gentle, inquiring. Nonjudgmental.

“It’s just, in the past I’ve mostly had spectacularly bad experiences with parents,” you murmur. You carefully keep your gaze on Ronan’s hands. Angie places one of hers on top of them. You scratch your neck. Your hair against the back of your hand is softer and silkier than it’s been in ages.

“Kylie’s parents--”

“Who?” Ronan interrupts gently.

“Oh, uh.” You swallow hard, wipe at your eye with the heel of your hand. “My ex-boyfriend. The one who kicked me out.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“No,” you say, “it’s fine, it’s fine. I didn’t realize I hadn’t told you his name. I sometimes… sometimes it’s hard to remember things.” Your eyes are still on Ronan and Angie’s hands. “But his parents hated me. My ex-partner Smarty’s parents weren’t that fond of me, and when we broke up they stopped letting me come over, even though he and I are still friends. Never met my ex-girlfriend’s parents, and she never talked about them.”

A long, long moment of silence.

“Well,” Angie says gently, “at least neither of us is your partner, so you don’t have to worry about impressing anyone.”

You snort a little, but a smile starts tugging at your mouth.

“Just be kind. Don’t even worry about politeness. Just be kind and they will be, too,” Ronan says.

It’s weak, but you manage to smile.

“Okay.”

The rest of the night is quiet. Angie and Ronan go to bed early. You try, but you can’t sleep. Instead you write Kylie a text message you’ll never send, and save it in your drafts so you can read it over and over, to remind yourself why you’re doing this at all.

 

Ronan’s moms live out in a rich, white suburb where you and Angie don’t fit in, but his whole family doesn’t even seem to notice you’re a skinny Japanese guy with hair longer than any of the women in the house, and after everyone hugs Ronan and Angie, they pull you in for hugs, too, because “Any friend of our son’s is just as much family as Angie is.”

You could cry. It’s been so long since you’ve seen your parents, even though you try to email them sometimes. They never write back. But Elicia and Kate hug you as if you’re one of their own, and Ronan’s older brother slaps you on the shoulder and pulls you into a one armed hug, and his little sister says your hair is beautiful and she wishes she could grow it that long but the ends always split before she can. It’s a lot to handle sober, and you end up spending most of your time in the chair by the tree, just looking at the lights and ornaments and other decorations. Even the tree is perfect: some glass balls in the back that reflect the lights, and in the front, all sorts of bits and bobs collected through the years, including stuff Ronan and his siblings made when they were kids. Little salt clay and pinecone things with hot-glued ribbon and way too much glitter.

They’re beautiful.

Did your parents save all of the stuff you made for them?

Ronan’s sister, Morgan, is twenty-three and newly graduated. She’s living back at home while she looks for work in her field -- social work -- and in the meantime works part-time at the coffee shop nearby so she can start paying back her loans. Even at three years younger than you, she’s more put together than you’ll ever be. After she notices you sitting all alone by the tree, she approaches you with some manufactured excuse about organizing the presents, but she sits down on the floor beside your chair and only pokes at them a little. She doesn’t speak. She lets you come to her. And you do.

“What’s it like?” you find yourself whispering. “To still be in a family as an adult?”

“Is that why Ronan and Angie invited you?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, unobtrusive, and you’re barely able to hear it over the Christmas music playing in the background. Neither of you look at each other. You look at the tree and she looks at the presents.

“Yeah,” you lie, because it’s so much easier than the alternative.

A long, long pause.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” Morgan asks.

“I’m lactose intolerant, unfortunately. Thanks, though.”

Morgan stands and brushes some tinsel bits off her jeans. “That’s okay! Angie taught me how she makes it, and we keep dairy free chocolate and plant milks around for when she and Ronan visit!” She gently brushes her knuckles against your shoulder. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll teach you!”

Finally, you look over at her and offer a small smile. She’s going to be great when she finally finds a job in social work.

She leads you into the kitchen and muscles between Ronan and their brother, Aidan, who are standing in front of the stove.

“Move, suckers, we’re making hot chocolate!”

She’s so different with people she knows, but then, so are you. So is everyone.

Ronan laughs, bright, gregarious, and it takes you off guard because you’ve never seen him more than chuckle. Aidan pulls him into a headlock and Ronan yelps, then laughs again, then stumbles after his brother into the living room.

Morgan grabs a shelf-stable carton of soymilk and digs around for a few minutes until she finds a couple of chocolate bars.

“This is the best way to do it,” she says, pouring some soymilk into a small pot and placing it on the stove. She turns on the flame and then puts it down low. “You don’t want to boil it, but get it really hot, and then stir in tiny pieces of the chocolate until it’s how you like it! If dark chocolate is too bitter for you we do have sugar!”

You turn to her and smile. She’s exactly your height, you think, down to the inch. Her smile is bright and wide like Angie’s, like Ronan’s was when Aidan grabbed him in the headlock, and you can’t help but wonder what happened to Ronan that he feels he has to be so withdrawn around other people.

Is he like that with Angie when you’re not around? He must be. It’s obvious he loves her, even if you don’t think you’ve ever heard either say it to the other. But you’re basically a stranger, and some people are more private about those things.

Morgan makes enough for two, one for you and one for Angie. She nudges you back toward the living room and you take your spot on the chair in the corner, holding the mug with both hands as you look down at the steaming cocoa.

Then, the thing you were dreading most:

“All right, presents!” Elicia exclaims. Everyone throws their hands up like it’s their first holiday, and you try to smile, but it wavers, and you have to squeeze your eyes closed so you can focus again.

You don’t need a present. Kylie already got you yours, the vegetarian marshmallows he gave you earlier this month.

Back when things were okay.

Morgan passes all the presents out, one by one, as is their tradition -- apparently that’s the youngest’s job -- and slowly but surely the pile gets smaller and smaller. Everyone gets such nice things, fancy editions of books and video games, nice clothes, home cooked treats.

Finally, Morgan picks up the last gift, a rectangle a little bigger than a shoe box, and you sigh in relief. Finally, the really awkward part will be over.

“Oh!” Morgan says. You look up from your near empty mug. “This one’s from Santa! It says it’s for you!” She whirls around and stuffs the red wrapped box in your hands and jumps back before you can return it.

The label does indeed say _to: Jen from: Santa_. It’s not Angie or Ronan’s handwriting. When you look up, everyone is grinning.

“I can’t --“

“Well, you have to, because Santa’s long gone, now isn’t he?” Kate smiles. Her eyes sparkle. You bite your lip and tear off the paper in neat, careful lines.

Inside is a box that looks like it’s for boots of some kind. Your brow furrows and you look up.

“Keep digging,” Elicia says. She’s in on it, too?

So you open the box. Inside are more presents, all in different sizes and wrapped in different colored paper.

Socks. A pack of white t-shirts. A box of bath stuff -- soap, face wash, even moisturizer. A nail care kit, with _everything_ , with a clipper and a file and a buffer.

And underneath it all is a Target gift card. You pick it up and turn it over, and you almost fall out of your chair.

All that, _and_ a $50 gift card?

All the physical stuff is pretty generic, but of course it is, because they don’t know your favorite color or what kind of soap you like or if you wear nail polish. But the fact that they put anything together at all, when they’ve already let you into their home, a stranger on a day for family and friends…

You were just grateful they fed you, and to also give you so _much_ when they don’t even know you?

You put everything back in the box and close it so nothing can get lost, and you hug it to your chest like a teddy bear, hard cardboard with sharp edges that dig into your breastbone. But it’s so much. It’s like finding treasure.

A hot dampness pools in your eyes, and when you blink, it pushes out as tears. You drop your forehead to the box and try not to cry, but you can’t help it. It’s too much. Too much.

A hand on your shoulder. It gently rubs back and forth, down to the top of your arm and up to just before your neck. You cover your eyes for a moment, sniff a little too hard, and wipe away the tears with the heel of your hand. You look up. It’s Angie there, standing beside you. She puts her other hand on your other shoulder and leans down to whisper, “It’s okay. I cried the first time, too.”

A wet chuckle escapes your lips and Angie straightens up with a smile. You look over at Kate and Elicia, over on the couch, Aidan sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of them, Ronan on the armrest. Morgan in a nearby chair.

They’ve barely known you an afternoon. You open your mouth, close it again, open, close, open. Let out a stream of air and wipe your eyes again. Clear your throat and start again.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Then, a little louder, “Thank you.”

Everyone smiles, but Ronan absolutely _beams_ , like… like you really _are_ family, and you were just lost for a while.

“Thank you,” you repeat. Elicia laughs and reaches up to ruffle Ronan’s hair. He snorts, but leans into it.

“Don’t thank us,” she says. “Write a letter to Santa.”

Ronan’s wide grin returns. It was clearly his idea. You wait until he looks up from Elicia and makes eye contact with you to say, “I will.”


	16. Chapter 16

You don’t go out for New Year’s. Your nerves are still too raw, your resolve too fragile: if you were to go out with Funshine and Smartypants and they were to offer, you’d take anything they’d hand you. So you stay in with Ronan and Angie and instead stay up late playing games with movies in the background.

Without your Adderall, all the days blur into a single, solid mass of grey. You try so hard to find work, but despite both Angie and Smartypants looking at your resume, you can’t seem to get a call back.

You’ve started texting Kylie, even though your phones have been shut off and they won’t send. Maybe that makes it easier. There is a list of them, now, unsent, never to see a reply.

_I love you._

_I miss you._

_I haven’t gotten high since my overdose. I’m sorry I saddled you with the bills. I didn’t know what else to do. You can just throw it away._

_I still can’t find work. None of the coffee shops want me because I’ve had too many jobs._

_I’m trying, Kylie. I’m trying so hard._

Angie is at the dining room table on her laptop, tip-tapping away at the keyboard as she handles her new work project. Ronan is at work. No class today, which means he gets the morning shift. He’ll be home for dinner. You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. Probably home soon, actually.

You rub at your eyes and can’t help the heavy, sad sigh that heaves from your chest. The tip-tap of Angie’s typing stops, and she says gently, “Jen?”

“I’m fine,” you lie. But they’re used to that by now. They know they can’t force you to talk, even though before all this bullshit you’d spill anything to anyone who asked. But “I’m fine” means “I’m not having cravings and I don’t want to hurt myself,” and they know that, and that’s enough some days. Some days, that’s the best you can do.

You close the text message window and pull up one of your matching games. They’re all Bejeweled knockoffs and you have a dozen of them, remasked to look like something new and different. The timer starts, but your brain can’t move fast enough to keep up with the images. God _dammit_ , when will you be able to get your Adderall again?

Just as the timer reaches zero, the lock on the door clicks once and Ronan enters. He closes the door behind him and shucks off his coat and boots, then shuffles through the mail, mumbling to himself. But then he jerks to a halt and pulls out an envelope.

“For one Atreyu Hoshigawa, from Medicaid!”

You nearly drop your phone you jerk up so fast. You don’t remember applying for Medicaid, but you don’t remember much of any of the minutiae of your life right now. You thrust your hands out and he hands it over.

“There’s also a new doggie daycare nearby opening up soon. I took a picture of the info so you can send in your resume.”

But you’re only half listening, ripping the envelope open.

It’s from County Care, that thing Angie helped you apply for all those weeks ago.

You scan over the letter as Angie and Ronan watch you while trying to seem like they aren’t.

You’ve been approved.

You throw your hands up in the air. “They said yes!”

Angie jumps up from her seat and Ronan closes the distance between you, and they both pull you into a tight hug. A few seconds later they break away and Angie rushes back to the table to grab her phone and laptop. She shoves the phone into your hands and plops down on the couch beside you, pulling up a new search window. Before you can think of what to look for, she’s typed in _chicago psychiatrists county care_ and gone off on a search.

“Let me find some leads for you, honey,” she says. Ronan sits down on her other side and peers over her shoulder. “Let’s see. How far are you willing to travel?”

You clutch the phone and your letter tight to your chest. Your heart is beating faster and you’re more awake than you can remember in weeks. “Anywhere,” you say earnestly. “As long as I don’t have to take the Metra or Pace buses, I don’t care.”

Angie bites her lip and her eyes dart over the page she’s opened. You try not to lean too far into her space. “There are a couple in the area of Boystown, it looks like?” she offers. Even as she does, she’s still scrolling through the page.

“That’s fine.”

“Oh! There’s one right off the Red Line! Perfect! The train will take you straight there!” Angie presses an excited kiss to Ronan’s cheek, and when you grin, it’s like stretching an aching muscle that’s been torn and is finally healing.

It takes a lot of transfers and about thirty minutes of holding, but you finally figure out how to make an appointment.

You have to see a therapist first.

Shit.

When your face drops, Angie and Ronan share a worried look.

“Uh, okay,” you finally mumble. “Do you have any appointments this week?”

“Not this week,” the person on the other end says. “We have one next Friday, if you don’t mind seeing a woman? Do you have a preference?”

“Whatever’s fine, I guess?” You never really thought about it before. But you can see why a woman might not want to see a man about her trauma or something.

“Then we have one on Friday with Tracey,” the person offers.

“What time?”

“One at 10:00 a.m., and then pretty much everything after 1:00 p.m. is open.”

“Let’s do 1:00,” you say. “I have to travel a while to get there.”

“No problem, Atreyu. Do you need anything else?”

A pause. Should you say anything? The website said they provide for the LGBTQIA communities, so even though you’re not trans, they should be used to using non-legal names, right?

“Um. Can you. Uh.”

Angie puts her hand on your knee and dips down to peer up into your eyes. Her brow is furrowed and nervous.

“Can you call me Jen, please? Instead?”

“Oh, of course!” the person says. “May I ask your pronouns?”

“Oh, he and him,” you say. “It’s just an old nickname I’m more comfortable with.”

“No problem, Jen, I’ll make a note in your file. Please try to get in about a half hour early so you can fill out some paperwork and get your insurance sorted. There will be a question on the form about your birth name versus your chosen name, so please make a note there about it, too.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Your shoulders relax a little. So does Angie’s face. Ronan asks softly, “Jen?” but Angie puts her hand on his knee to quiet him.

“In that case, we’ll see you on Friday next week around 12:30. If it becomes an emergency before then please don’t hesitate to call in and see if we’ve had any cancellations.”

“Thank you,” you say. “Bye.”

And you hang up.

You tap Angie’s phone against the palm of your hand. She gently touches your wrist and says, “Jen?”

“Jen, is everything okay?” Ronan asks.

“They want me to see a therapist first,” you mumble.

Angie and Ronan share a look. From the corner of your eye, you can see their expressions. Angie looks relieved. Ronan looks alarmed.

“I think that’s pretty standard for most people with state insurance,” Angie reassures you. “To make sure you’re getting the correct services.”

“To weed out drug seekers,” you mutter.

Ronan flinches.

“Don’t look at it that way, Jen,” he offers gently. “I mean. I know you don’t talk a lot in NA, and you haven’t told us much either, but… if your overdose was a suicide attempt, seeing a therapist might be able to help.”

You flinch. Ronan bites his lip. He puts his hand on the back of Angie’s neck, under her long hair, and Angie touches your shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure if you don’t get along with the one they assign you at first, you can request a different one,” he finishes.

You shrug a shoulder. Take a deep breath. Force out a smile.

“Hey,” you say, far too cheery, “at least it’s a step in the right direction.”

There’s no shame in seeing a therapist. It’s not that. Smartypants and Funshine both saw one after the car crash, and stayed in it for a while. It’s just… that’s not what you need, right now. You need meds. You don’t need coping skills and behavioral therapy. You need ADHD meds and probably antidepressants. It’s just another thing to trip over while you wait.

 

When you and Ronan go in on Sunday, everyone at your NA meeting is happy for you finally getting a therapist, as if that was the end goal. You’re too tired to argue. Everything is foggy and vague, you can’t think, you can’t focus, and in some ways you can’t even feel.

You still send texts to Kylie, and wonder if he would be proud of you.

_I got insurance. I can finally see someone. Over a month too late, but I’m trying._

_Ronan found a doggie daycare that’s hiring. I sent in a resume. I thought a new business would have more chances than someplace just hiring for one or two spots._

_Sometimes I don’t know if I’m getting better. Maybe I never will._

 

It’s raining. It’s January and it’s freezing cold and it’s raining, and you have an interview to get to. Angie had to take the car to the other side of the city for a meeting, but Ronan gave you his umbrella and windbreaker. It has a hood. He tightens the cord around your chin like an overprotective father and hands you the umbrella, a huge bumbershoot of a thing, with yellow and green stripes.

He even lets you borrow a pair of his waterproof boots.

You don’t have much to wear, but between Ronan and Angie, you were able to pull together a respectable outfit. Ronan gently whaps your shoulder and says,

“Just be confident. Listen to your interviewers. Remember the questions I told you to ask, okay?”

You nod, each hand fisted around the umbrella handle. Your clothes are black but the windbreaker is bright yellow, and all it needs is a little orange brim and you’d look like a little kid in a duck raincoat going to play in the rain.

Ronan smiles at you with more confidence than anyone else ever has. “You’ve got this, okay?”

You nod again and head out the door.

As you walk to the corner to catch your bus, you do your best to stay hidden underneath overhangs and awnings, but the last quarter of the block is open to the downpour. You bust open the umbrella and almost immediately go flying backward with the force of the wind.

But you can do this. You _have_ to do this. You have to do this for Ronan and Angie, for being so good to you.

You have to do this for Kylie.

When the bus comes for you, the driver’s going so fast he splashes water from one edge of the sidewalk to the other and you have to jump back in the muddy grass in between it and the building behind you, and when they pull up to your off-stop, you have to leap from the door to the sidewalk so you don’t get water all over your slacks.

The rain has slowed by the time you cross the street. Your stop is obvious, a window faced storefront with a big green banner that says “Coming soon!” in white letters. In the windowed door is a small poster with an outline of a beagle-looking dog and “Totally Pawsome!” written in curly font. It’s cheesy, but you can’t help but smile at the bright spring flowers printed around the dog silhouette.

The light is on, which means even though they aren’t open, someone is there. You’re ten minutes early, but it was that or fifteen minutes late. Hopefully that doesn’t make you look bad.

You push the door open. A little bell jingles. The room is smaller than it looks from outside, but on your left is a doorway with no door installed yet, so you peer in. Just beyond it is tons and tons of space, soft green and blue mats on the floor, hooks on the door beside you -- probably for leashes? -- plastic bins of toys on the other side of the room. There’s a desk at the front and a door beside it. Maybe it leads to the kennels?

There’s no one here. You fold up your umbrella and strip off your goofy looking windbreaker before your interviewer can come out and see you. Run your hand through your hair.

Well, it _did_ keep you dry.

“Just a moment!” a woman’s voice calls. “Sorry!”

“ No worries!” you call back. Pause. “Uh, I’m just here to see Casey? For an interview? I know I’m early so I don’t mind waiting --”

A woman in her mid to late thirties, shorter than Smartypants and with blonde hair even longer than yours, pops out from the swinging door behind the desk. She smiles brightly at you, and a little of the nervousness melts out of your chest. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

She shoves her hand over the desk for you to shake. You take it. “Atreyu,” you introduce yourself. “Atreyu Hoshigawa.” You don’t ask for your nickname. You don’t want to give her any reason to turn you away.

“Casey,” she says. “Come on into the back and let’s talk!”

She leads you back through that same swinging door into a storage space with bags of dry dog food, treats, a sink, and what looks like a small cooking station with a microwave and a plug in burner. She pulls two chairs away from a table that seems to be acting as a desk in the corner and hands one to you. Before you can sit down, she spins hers around and sits on it backwards, arms resting on the top of the back.

You sit just slightly less casually, sideways, knees pressed together and feet apart.

Casey is straightforward, but funny and kind, and she’s looking for full time workers to train, groom, and assist and to take the dogs on walks. You say you can do pretty much anything except the actual training and grooming: you’re good with animals, you can lift heavy stuff, you have no issue walking dogs no matter what the weather is, after all, you came for your interview in this mess, didn’t you?

If you’d met her anywhere else, you’d have considered asking Casey out on a casual date. Nothing serious, not even romantic, just… someone to hang out with and talk to who doesn’t know about your baggage. But as it is, when the interview ends, she shakes your hand again, and says,

“I’d like to offer you a job as a walker, fifteen an hour.”

You grin brightly and say, “Yeah! Yeah, I’d love that!”

“Depending on who else ends up on staff, I may ask you to help out a little bit in the back -- organizing stock when it comes in, mostly. We need someone who can lift the bags and boxes without hurting themselves.”

“That’s fine,” you say. You’re getting paid hourly and work is work, you’re not about to complain.

“We open at the end of the month, but I’m planning to have my staff by Friday, and the following Monday we’ll start two weeks of training to make sure everyone can handle the dogs safely.”

You don’t say anything about the NA meetings, and you don’t request to have those evenings off. Ronan will understand, right? You’ll be seeing a therapist so it’s like… practically the same thing. And on Sundays you close at 3:00 anyway, so you can still get there once a week.

“Walkers will have a small GPS unit they’ll have to keep on them whenever they leave the shop with a dog,” she warns, a little hesitantly, as if she’s afraid that will scare you off. “That way doggie parents can see for themselves the routes and how far the dogs were walked, and also we can keep track of you in case something happens and you take longer than expected. Not to spy, but so we can check in and make sure everything’s all right. You don’t have to install anything on your phone or anything like that.”

You grin. Maybe that would scare off someone less desperate, but you remember how Mouse was with his dog, how he babied her like a human toddler rather than an animal, and you can see why a pet owner would want to know where their dog was going every day.

“That’s fine,” you say.

Casey’s shoulders relax a little and she smiles. “And, I do have to ask one more thing.”

Your grin freezes. Oh no. She’s going to ask you for a drug test and somehow you’ll still have traces in your system. She has a relative in your NA group. You weren’t as focused as you thought and she can tell something’s off about you.

But she just says, “Little dogs can go out multiple at a time, unless their owner specifies, but big dogs are one on one. Say a poorly trained Rottweiler sees a squirrel and lunges. Would you be able to rein it in?”

Your shoulders relax, and you have to keep from slumping in relief. “Sure!” you say. “I know I’m small, but I’m a lot stronger than I look. I used to lift boxes for a living. I can do it.”

Casey grins again. “Excellent! Well, sorry that went a little out of order, but you still have the job offer if you want it?”

“Yes!” You could clap in excitement, you’re so happy. Who knew finding work could be so easy once you finally got someone to call you back?

Maybe you weren’t trying as hard with Kylie as you thought. But that’s in the past now, and you’re looking toward the future. A future where you have a job, where you have meds, where you have Kylie.

A couple more moments of polite chit-chat and Casey nudges you out the door so she can get back to work. You’re to come in Monday to fill out paperwork and begin training, and you need a green shirt with no images or text and jeans. Since you’ll be outside a lot of a time, a jacket, obviously. She has no rules about that. She knows how expensive stuff like that is, and doesn’t expect anyone to buy a new one for a job.

You don’t have any green shirts, and you don’t think Angie does, either. All of Ronan’s would be too big. But maybe they’ll be so proud of you they’ll buy you one and you’ll be really careful not to get it dirty until you get your first paycheck. It’ll be hard when you’re dealing with dogs, but if the first two weeks are just training, maybe there won’t be as much dirt and fur.

While you’re waiting at the bus stop to go back to Angie and Ronan’s, you hook into a nearby café’s wi-fi and send Funshine and Smartypants a message:

_I GOT A JOB!!!_

Now that both of them have installed the facebook chat client on their phones, they get back to you almost right away.

Smartypants responds immediately.

_Funshine’s at work, so she might not see this right away, but that’s fuckin’ awesome!!! Congrats Jen!!! What are you doing Friday, we’ll celebrate!!_

_I have an appointment at 1:00. It’ll probably be an hour? After that I’m open._

_Awesome. Send me the address where you’re staying and we’ll come grab you afterward and go out!!_

You grin, bright and beaming, and even though it’s so cold out, you’re warm all the way through.

You send a message to Ronan, too, even though he doesn’t have the app. He might be on his laptop or something, you never know.

_I got it I got it I got it!!!_

The bus arrives. You hop on and make your way back.


	17. Chapter 17

You go to NA on Wednesday. You don’t talk much. You’re not sure if it’s helping or not. Everyone is nice enough, and nobody judges you, and it’s not like you and Ronan are the only ones in your age group. There are plenty of people in their 20s. The youngest is 17, the oldest is 61. You meet people who were addicted to heroin for years, who served jail time, who were disowned by their families, who lost their homes. It makes you feel spoiled and selfish, like your problems are unimportant by comparison, because you were just a party kid who was too full of himself to see how you were hurting the people who loved you.

Love you. Don’t think in past tenses. Maybe Kylie still does.

This all seems so stupid, sometimes, going through all this bullshit on the off-chance Kylie will take you back. What if he’s moved on? What if he finds someone better? A guy who has a good job and takes care of him and brings him out on dates? Who doesn’t let the gas get shut off because he spent too much on molly and acid?

If nothing else, it’s your payment to Ronan and Angie for letting you stay. You try to tell yourself that. Even if… oh, god, you can’t even think it more than once in a sitting.

He has to take you back. You’re working so hard, and you love him, and he loves you. Or, at least he did at one point.

You can’t expect him to wait. Logically, you know that. He doesn’t owe you a second chance.

But that doesn’t keep you from hoping he might choose to give you one.

On the drive back to the apartment, Ronan asks if you’d be interested in getting matched with a sponsor. It doesn’t have to be him, he says, if there’s someone else you’re more comfortable with.

But you’re not comfortable with anyone. Maybe you should ask Ronan to be your sponsor, if he’s up for it, but. It seems like too much to ask of anyone. Like you’d just be wasting their time.

 

Finally, finally, Friday comes. Ronan’s in class when you leave. Angie’s working from home today. If she notices you watching the clock on your phone, she doesn’t call you on it.

You’re not sure how long the trip will take. You kind of remember seeing something about construction on the line, but was it before or after your stop? If you’re late getting home, whatever. But you can’t be late for your appointment. You need that fucking Adderall and every time they tell you to jump through another hoop to get it, all you’re going to ask is, “How high?”

You’re so goddamn tired.

Eventually you decide you’ll leave an hour early, to give yourself plenty of time to get lost and still arrive to do your paperwork in time. Your insurance card hasn’t come in, but you still have your letter, crinkled up from your fingers gripping it so tightly so often, when you pull it out to reread it again and again and again, just to make sure it’s real. You grab it now from the little table beside the couch, fold it up and stick it in your pocket. Angie looks up from her laptop at the sound of paper crumpling.

“Are you on your way out?” she asks. You nod, stand, all sharp angles and too long limbs, shoulders hunched too much, toes turned in. Phone goes in the opposite pocket, you grab your wallet and shove it into the one with the letter, squawk unceremoniously when your jeans start to slip down. It’s been about a month and a half, and even though Angie and Ronan are feeding you, your already skinny frame has shed even more weight.

You grab your belt loops and tug your jeans back up.

“Do you need to borrow a belt, honey?” Angie asks.

You rub at your cheek, notice the stubble there. You haven’t shaved in a few days. Have you even bathed at all? You’ve brushed your teeth, right?

You run your tongue along your teeth. They _feel_ clean.

“Jen?”

“Oh, uh, sorry. Yeah. Please. If you. If you have an extra one.”

Angie smiles at you and whisks past you into the bedroom to wherever she keeps her accessories, and you glance over your shoulder at the bathroom door. You keep the toothpaste on the sink now, so you don’t have to fumble through the medicine cabinet, so you don’t know if the Xanax is still there. You _can’t_. You _know_ you can’t. But god, _god_ , would it help with the bright lights and loud screeching on the train.

For the first time since you quit, you really, honest to god, start to itch.

You turn away from the bathroom and dig through your things to find the headphones Ronan loaned you while Angie looks for a belt.

You’re not an addict. You’re _not_. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t rely on getting high to help you forget why being sober was such shit.

A drawer thumps closed in the bedroom and Angie returns with a belt. She hands it to you and you just kind of look at it for a moment, like your brain has shorted out and you don’t remember what to do.

“Sorry it’s sparkly,” she says. You look up to see her smiling sheepishly. And it is: it looks like it’s made from the same stuff as those old jelly sandals from the 90s, only it’s a sparkly rainbow gradient instead of a solid color.

“Oh! No, that’s okay. I don’t mind. I’ve worn stuff way more sparkly than this.”

You tug it on and fasten it. Even at the smallest hole, your jeans are still a little loose.

“Let me get some scissors,” Angie offers. “We’ll make a new hole so it fits right.”

Your head jerks up again. “What? No, don’t do that, ruin a perfectly good belt --“

Angie gently rubs her thumb across your cheek and pushes your hair out of your face. You can’t help but lean into it. Her hand is warm and soft and comforting, and she always smells so nice. Whatever her perfume is, it’s gentle and citrusy and light and it makes you feel like things might be okay someday.

“I’ll get the scissors,” she repeats, gently enough to say it’s not a problem, firmly enough to say you don’t have a choice in the matter.

 

Ronan, generous guy that he is, loaned you his _good_ headphones, the cushioned over the ears ones, and is using a pair of shitty earbuds for himself in the meantime.

You don’t deserve his friendship. Angie’s either. You touch the belt with your thumb and close your eyes as the train comes up to the next stop. Not yours yet. You still have a few more to go.

How could you have even _considered_ taking some of Ronan’s meds? What’s wrong with you? You don’t steal from people. Corporations, sure. Businesses, yeah, if you have to. But not _people_. And _especially_ not friends.

You’re so lost in your thoughts you nearly miss your stop, but you open your eyes just in time to see the station sign come into view. Sheridan.

You hop up and rush out, barely squeezing through the already closing doors. For a moment, you just stand and catch your breath. It’s cold, so cold, the wind is so fast and sharp it cuts your face. You pull the Ronan’s scarf tighter around your face and try your best to cover your nose and ears.

Make your way down the stairs.

The station is connected to a little coffee shop by a swinging glass door. Angie had seen it on the map when she was helping you look up your route. She gave you five bucks, enough for a coffee but not enough to get in trouble with.

You get a soy cappuccino, extra extra dry, and stir a bunch of raw sugar into the foam. Grab a plastic spoon and munch it down as you cross the street to get to the doctor’s office. It’s warm and fluffy and the sugar makes it a little crunchy and it’s almost like candy, and oh, it’s so, so good. Knowing there are a few shots of espresso waiting at the bottom makes it even better.

The office is tucked into the side of the street and you almost walk right past it.

For a moment, you stand outside the door, just looking in. But finally the sharp wind gets to be too much, and you breathe in deep and go inside.

It’s warm. It’s _so_ warm. You can even take your gloves off! Not that you weren’t expecting a doctor’s office to have heat, but after that trek on the train, it _is_ really nice.

The waiting area is big, with high ceilings and lots of chairs, but not pushed too close together. In the back is a pharmacy sign. You can get scripts filled here, too? Oh, thank god, that will make it so much easier.

To your left is the check-in desk. There’s a man sitting behind it, talking on the phone, and you don’t want to interrupt, so you just. Step up close enough to be noticed but far enough you can’t be accused of eavesdropping. The man catches your eye and he mouths, “Take a number,” and gestures at a pile of cards. You do.

There are more chairs and desks behind him. Is that where you go?

You take a few steps into the quieter area. Nobody else is waiting. Guess you’ll find out pretty quick whether you’re in the right place.

“Twenty-six!” someone calls. You look down at your number. That’s you.

They scan your insurance letter and ID and give you a pile of paperwork. Jesus, no wonder they told you to get here so early. They give you a pen and a smile and say, “You can just give it to Tracey when she comes out.”

The letters fade in and out, blurry, and you squint at the paper as you try to focus well enough to get the questions to make sense. You’re only about halfway through when someone calls for you.

“Jen?”

Your shoulders relax. She must have seen the thing about your nickname in your file. You didn’t realize how much stress the name Atreyu puts you under until you had to start using it all the time again.

Tracey is probably in her late 50s, with short, curly grey hair, warm brown skin, and fashionable red-framed glasses. She leads you through a door and down a short hallway. Into a small, but nicely lit and decorated room. Plants on the windowsill, a sheer curtain drawn over it so nobody can come nosing in. A few fiddle toys in bright colors. With one arm, you hug the clipboard and paperwork to your chest, and as you both sit down, you stare at the little fidget cube next to the plant with the pink flowers.

“You can use one if you want.”

Your head jerks up.

“The fiddle toys. You can use any you want. I also have a few plushies and some scarves made of different fabrics, if something like that might help.”

Your brow furrows, but you pick up the fidget cube. Press down a button. _Oh_ , that’s loud. Maybe it will be easier to ignore once you’re talking.

“I, uh, didn’t get to finish the papers, um, Miss Tracey, and --“

She leans forward and holds a hand up with a loose wrist. “It’s okay, Jen, it’s okay,” she says gently. “And please don’t think you have to call me ‘Miss. Just Tracey is fine.” She pauses, then continues, “unless, of course, ‘Miss’ makes you more comfortable.” She reaches a little closer to you.

“May I?”

You start to hand her the cube, but she shakes her head and says, “No, the paperwork.”

Oh. That does make more sense.

You hand it over.

“I’m basically going to be asking you all of these questions again, but more in depth,” Tracey explains. She pulls a pen out of her shirt pocket and clicks it open. “So I can fill this in as we talk, if that’s okay?”

You nod. “That’s okay.”

“So, first things first,” Tracey says, placing her hand over her chest. “My name is Tracey, and my pronouns are either she/her or they/them. They mean the same to me so you can use whichever you like.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a preference?” you ask. The whole reason Smartypants uses he/him pronouns at all is out of convenience, and back when he first realized he was nonbinary, he’d complained more than once that he’d rather use they/them if he could get away with it. It doesn’t seem to bother him now, but what if that’s where Tracey is, too?

Her eyes light up a little, and she says, “Well, I do have a slight preference toward they/them,” she admits. “Thank you so much for asking.”

You shrug. “I have a ton of trans and nonbinary friends,” you say, even though that’s not quite true. You have three out of four, five if you can still count Kylie. But they still make up the majority. “I understand.”

“And you?”

“Oh, uh, well, like it says on the paper, my birth name is Atreyu. It doesn’t really bother me, but I prefer Jen, because…”

A lump in your throat chokes off the rest of your sentence.

“I prefer Jen,” you amend. A long pause as Tracey waits for you to continue. “Oh! Uh, and he/him is fine. I’m kinda gender nonconforming, I guess, but I’m cis.”

Tracey smiles. You try to smile back, but it’s forced and weak. You wish you’d gotten an extra espresso shot or two, because excessive amounts of caffeine has been the only thing keeping you in one piece since your Adderall was stolen.

“So, Jen,” they begin. “Let’s start with the big question and work our way backwards. Why are you here today?”

You click another button on the fidget cube. Click a lever back and forth. Finally, you say, “I need to see a psychiatrist and they said I have to see you first.”

They look down and scribble something in the margin of your paperwork. “Fair enough. Why do you want to see a psychiatrist?”

“I have ADHD,” you say. “And it’s. It’s been unmedicated for a really long time because I didn’t have insurance and my job paid really shitt-- poorly--“

“You can swear, it doesn’t bother me.”

You snort a little, and your mouth finally starts to turn up for real. “Shitty pay. So no doctor, no meds.” How much should you tell them? Should you be specific with type and dosage? Would that make you look responsible or like an addict?

“That’s tough,” they say, and their voice is soft, and understanding, and they actually mean it. “How old were you when you were first diagnosed? Have you ever been diagnosed with any other disorders?”

You go through your childhood, how you could never sit in one place or focus on one topic, about how your mind was always everywhere except where it needed to be, and then you jumped off the roof that one time and your parents took you in and the doctor said you had ADHD and started giving you pills. They did help, you say, your grades went up and you finally started doing well in school.

Your thumb shifts back and forth on the lever on the fidget cube. Click, click, click.

Mostly it’s in your head, you tell them, the hyperactive part. It’s not so much physical anymore. Your head just never shuts up and it’s always bouncing around.

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” Tracey asks.

You nod.

“Tell me about it?”

You pull your knees up to your chest, balancing your heels on the front of the chair. Try to scoot back, but there’s nowhere to go.

You answer every one of their stupid questions.

They ask you about your childhood. About your medical history. Tell them about your sleep. Your moods. Have you ever had hallucinations? Have you ever been through any trauma? Any drug use?

You swallow hard and look down at their shoulder, the warm orange and red of their shirt.

“Jen?” they coax, gently.

“Will it change whether or not I can get meds for my ADHD?” you murmur. “My answer. I can prove I have it. I can give you the information for my pediatrician to get my files. I’ll go through the tests again.”

A long, long, pause. Your gaze drops lower, down to their knees, and you bury your nose behind your own, just peeking over, like a scared child.

“I can’t promise you anything,” they say. “The only thing I can make sure of is that you can see a psychiatrist, and yes, I do think you should.” They push their glasses up their nose and continue, “But the more honest you are with me, the better treatment plan I can come up with. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Your shoulders hunch in a little closer and you lower your eyes. Just the denim of your jeans in your vision, now. You sniffle, and finally whisper, “Yeah.”

“Yes to which part?”

“The. The drugs. I used to party a lot. You know, street drugs aren’t as expensive as people make them out to be, and… it helped. It helped me not care that I couldn’t focus and was depressed all the time and had a terrible job and was a piece of shit to my boyfriend.” You flinch. “Ex-boyfriend.”

“Are you still using?” they ask. You hate the way sober people phrase that question. It sounds so _lame_.

You click the lever again. Shake your head.

“When was the last time?”

“About a month and a half ago.”

They nod and scribble something more down.

“Cigarettes? Alcohol?”

“Not cigarettes,” you say. “And, uh, in the past sometimes I’d have a drink here or there but it’s been a while. I’ve been going to Narcotics Anonymous and they really hate that stuff. They think you should be sober from everything.”

Tracey smiles a little sympathetically. “That _is_ better if you have an addictive personality.”

 _I’m not an addict,_ you want to say, but you know they wouldn’t get it.

Then they swing backwards, and ask, “You say you were self medicating depression as well as ADHD? Can you tell me about that? Have you always felt that way, or did it start after the accident you mentioned?”

You bite your lip. You were hoping they wouldn’t circle back around to Mouse. You’re going out to celebrate your new job with your best friends tonight! You shouldn’t be thinking about sad things.

“You know, I… I’m not sure,” you finally admit. “I know it’s been a long time. It kind of feels like it’s always been there, just sometimes it’s not as bad as others.”

Tracey nods. “It’s possible the depression could stem from losing such a close friend in such a bad accident,” they say, “but it’s also very possible that it stems from a brain chemical malfunction. In this case, since you aren’t sure when it started, it could easily be either. I’d like you to see the psychiatrist before we start to tackle that, so maybe you can get a better idea of what you need to talk about?”

“I don’t _want_ to talk about it,” you snap, but there are tears pooling in your eyes and your lashes stick together with it, and your voice hitches, and you wipe at your nose with the back of your hand, careful to not get snot on Ronan’s jacket sleeve.

You mutter, “Sorry,” and look away.

“Don’t be,” Tracey says. “I’m not here to interrogate you, Jen. I’m here to help. And I will have to take your word on it when you tell me what you need help _with_. But in order to do that, you have to be honest with me.”

You sigh, thick and heavy and tired, and bury your face in your hands. When you speak, it comes out muffled from the gap between the heels of your hands.

“I just want to get back on medication so I can function,” you murmur. “I finally got a new job, and it’s even full time, fifteen an hour! I’ve never gotten pay that high before. And I can’t afford to fuck it up again. I like my boss, and even though I haven’t started yet, I think I’ll like the job, too.”

“What is it?”

“Dog-walker and general help around a doggie daycare.” You finally peek out from behind your fingers.

“Do you like animals?” Tracey asks.

“I guess? I never really thought about working with animals until I found out this place was hiring, because… well, I needed a job and it didn’t matter what it was. But I like dogs okay. I’m strong and I have a lot of energy when I’m medicated properly, so, like, I’d be good at walking them.”

Tracey smiles and scribbles something down. They look back up.

“So, you say you’ve struggled with ADHD most of your childhood and all of your adult life,” they say. “Did your last doctor help give a name to the symptoms?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Kind of, I guess? I mean. He didn’t outright say that I have executive dysfunction specifically, but we talked about my inability to ever get anything done. To even start doing shit. How I just… god, this sounds so stupid but I don’t know how else to say it, even stuff I _want_ to do I just… I _can’t_. And there’s not even a reason! It’s just like my brain tells my body, ‘nope!’ And like I said earlier, I can’t focus, I can’t think, I can’t concentrate, my brain is just a fucking fog all the time and --”

“And you said you’re no longer using drugs, correct?” Tracey asks gently.

You pull your knees up to your chest again. “Not in a month and a half,” you repeat. And then, nervously, “Why?”

“I just want to make sure your struggle with thinking clearly wasn’t because of, or worse because of that. That’s all.”

Your shoulders relax. “Okay.”

“Could detox or withdrawal be making it any worse?” they ask. Their voice is still gentle. No judgement. It’s that, and the fact that they’re still looking you in the eye, that keeps you from snapping again.

“No,” you answer. “I was a party kid. I didn’t. Like. I wasn’t. I wasn’t addicted to anything, in any physical way. I counted on some things to keep me from being bored and miserable all the time, but it’s been a long, long time since I’ve used something often enough to get addicted.”

“And how long ago was that?”

You bite your lip. This isn’t an interrogation. You have rights to keeping this private. They can’t even tell your psychiatrist without your permission, whoever that ends up being.

“I started around the time I met Mouse. The one who died in the accident two years ago. We were fourteen.”

“Did he get you into it, or…?”

You shake your head and tuck your hair behind your ear. Your near empty paper coffee cup sits on the ground by the chair leg. You put down the fidget cube and pick up the cup and stir it to give you something to do, anything to do that’s quiet, because the cube is cool and all but it’s so _loud_.

There’s no foam left, just dark brown espresso in the bottom of the cup, saturated with sugar. It’s room temperature now. You knock it back, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and say, “We started exploring together. He wanted to know what a Deaf hallucination would be like. And I knew a girl with synesthesia and…” You shrug. “I thought it sounded kinda interesting and wanted to see if I could replicate it. And I was just so fucking bored all the time, like… hobbies weren’t doing it. They hadn’t since I was a kid.”

Tracey’s eyebrows shoot up, but they quickly school their expression.

“We were just dumb, bored kids smoking weed and dropping acid and huffing paint fixative we stole from the art classrooms,” you say. “And instead of growing out of it we just… kept going.”

The rest of the meeting goes on like this. They get more out of you than you thought anyone but Funshine and Smartypants ever could.

You tell them about how you died on your seventeenth birthday from a ketamine overdose, and took it as a challenge instead of a warning.

Tracey’s brows shoot up again, and this time she doesn’t get control of her expression before you can keep going.

You know this story. The near death experience is usually what gets people out of drug use, addiction, whatever they think this is. And if it’s not that, it’s a loved one dying, like Mouse. You must look like a real piece of shit right now, and you say as much. But Tracey’s face goes soft, and they say,

“No, Jen, you don’t. You look like someone who has been suffering and didn’t know how else to deal with it,”

You snort and run your hand through your hair. “I don’t know if you could call extreme boredom suffering, but --”

They hold up their pen and say gently, “May I interrupt?”

You finally put your cup down and pick up the fidget cube again. Don’t press any buttons this time, just run your fingers over all the ridges and shapes. Tracey doesn’t continue, and you realize you haven’t given them permission. So you nod.

“If you do have ADHD -- and I have no reason to doubt that’s true -- boredom to people with brains like that… well, there’s no polite way to put it. It’s _hell_. Brains like yours need to be kept busy, and often need medication to help reign things in.”

They scribble something more down in your file and look up at you again. “If we could get you on medication, would you be willing to do drug tests for a while?”

If you do pale, Tracey doesn’t call you out on it.

“I guess?” you say. “Like I said, it’s been a month and a half, but I don’t know how long everything stays in your system and --”

“I don’t mean today,” Tracey interrupts gently. “You may not even need to do it at all. But the psychiatrist I want to refer you to deals heavily in drug addiction alongside mental illness, and she may want to. She may not! You just need to know it’s a possibility and be ready for that.”

You’re not sure if that’s a warning or a heads-up, a “hey, don’t do anything stupid so you can be sure you get your pills.”

Silence for a few minutes. You look down at the cube in your hand and start clicking the buttons again.

“Jen?” Tracey finally breaks the silence. You look up again, back down at the cube.

“Yeah?” you ask, when they don’t continue.

“Your friend. Mouse. We don’t have a whole lot of time left today, but it sounds like you still have a lot of trauma from that night, and I want to know if you’d like me to help you work through it so I can put it in your treatment plan, if I need to.”

You bite your lip. Your throat feels like it’s closing up. You try to swallow and it’s like forcing a football through a drinking straw.

“Maybe eventually,” you finally whisper. “Just not yet.”

Tracey nods. “All right.”

They end the appointment by giving you a card for the psychiatrist and telling you to make an appointment with her as soon as possible, and another one with them in two weeks.

After you’ve made your appointments and got your reminder cards in your wallet, you step outside again and look over at the kitty corner train stop. You have no money in your account and you have less than a dollar left from what Angie gave you.

But even though you’re not close, exactly, you’re closer to Smartypants and Funshine here than you would be downtown, so you pull your phone out of your pocket and go back inside to reconnect to the wi-fi.

You send a message to Smartypants, because Funshine hasn’t gotten back to your good morning check-in message yet. Probably still at work.

_So, what were you thinking for tonight?_


	18. Chapter 18

“Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!”

Funshine and Smartypants slam their hands on the table in time with the chant, and you down one, two, three shots in as many quick movements. When you finally get a moment to breathe, you hold up the last shot glass, empty except for a few drops of bright red alcohol, and your friends throw their hands up and cheer.

Maybe this is a bad idea, but you lost your filter about five drinks ago.

The three of you got kicked out of the restaurant a couple hours back for being too rowdy, so Funshine gathered you all up in the car and drove you back downtown, so you could get home easily, after all’s said and done. The bars in Boystown play better music, but whatever. Alcohol is alcohol, no matter how you pour it.

Your server -- Devin? Daniel? you’re too drunk to remember for certain and he doesn’t have a nametag -- slides a layered glass topped with whipped cream in front of you. You’re drunk, but not drunk enough to forget you’re lactose intolerant.

You turn back to your server and open your mouth, but instead of walking away, he leans in and says, “From the lady with the short brown hair over at the corner table.” He gestures over and you follow his hand. There is, indeed, a woman sitting there, and she’s  _gorgeous_ , hair in a pixie cut and a pale blue tank top that shows off her shoulders and arms, covered in bright floral tattoos.

She smiles shyly and waves. You can see her flush from here.

You grin back and gesture her over. She sits up straight and looks around at her friends, who jostle her from either side, revving her up to approach you. She laughs -- you can even hear it all the way over hear, bright and melodious -- and she grabs the wrists of one of the other women at her table and drags her over.

Funshine and Smartypants lean over each other to peer out into the club, watching the two women weave through the dancing crowd toward you. They both turn back toward you and Funshine grins wolfishly.

“They! are!  _hot_! Which one?”

“Pixie Cut bought me the drink. There’s milk in here though.”

Smartypants laughs and shakes his head. “Of all the drinks she could have picked, right?”

The woman and her friend finally stop at the edge of your table. You scoot across the booth seat to the wall and pat the spot next to you.

“I just wanted to thank you!” you shout over the music. “I’m lactose intolerant, though, so I’m gonna give it to my friends! I wanted you to know I wasn’t turning you down!”

Pixie Cut plops down next to you, purse and jacket in her lap. Oh, so she’s planning on staying a while!

Her friend sits down beside her and Pixie Cut jostles against your shoulder, not entirely accidentally.

“I’m so sorry!” she laughs over the music. “I should have asked what you were drinking, I guess, but a Blowjob seemed like a good opener.”

Funshine tilts her head back and roars with laughter.

“I’m Jen!” You manage to clear the noise and fog in your head long enough to introduce yourself. “This is Funshine and Smarty.”

They wave in turn as you gesture to each of them.

“I’m Natalie!” the woman laughs. She points to her friend, a tall, heavyset white woman with long hair the same bright yellow as Funshine’s. “This is Sunny!”

Funshine lights up and pounds her fists on the table. “Secret twins! Secret twins!”

“I hope it’s not weird to bring a friend,” Natalie says, “but you can never be too careful these days, right?”

“No worries!” You laugh and gently nudge your shoulder against hers. “The more the merrier.”

It doesn’t take long before your booth has migrated over to Natalie’s and Sunny’s friends, who are sitting at a regular table. You drag a chair to the side so Smartypants’s wheelchair has space and push two tables together. You’re probably being super obnoxious but Funshine always tips well, so you don’t feel too bad about it. You’ll put everything back before you leave.

The alcohol flows free and plentiful, saccharine sweet and so bitter you cringe, and soon you lose track of how much you’ve had. But even though your head is swimming and things are going fuzzy at the edges, you feel  _great_.

Natalia… no, Nancy? No,  _Natalie_ , has been drinking like a fucking animal, even more than Funshine. She crawls into your lap and nuzzles into the curve of your neck into your shoulder. It’s almost like she’s  _purring_ , but no, oh,  _oh_ , she nips at the skin there and it can’t be pleasant under all the sweat, but she doesn’t complain or even seem to mind.

She presses against you and leans into you, pressing her cheek against yours.

“Hey,” she murmurs, “you wanna get out of here? I only live a couple blocks away.”

Her breath is hot and damp against your skin, and the lights are so bright, and the music is so loud, and it all makes your head swim so fast the answer tumbles out of your mouth before it has a chance to process through your brain.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The tab is on Funshine’s card, and she’s still slamming shots like they’re water, and Smartypants is wobbling a little in his chair, so you shout over the music, “You two are getting a hotel room, right?”

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Funshine shouts back. “I learned my lesson when Kylie had to bail --”

Her mouth snaps shut when your face goes ashen. She slaps a hand over her mouth and her eyes go wide.

“Jen, Jen I’m so sorry, don’t worry about it, I’m not gonna drive drunk, we’ll find a hotel somewhere.”

Natalia, still pressed up against you like a cat in a sunbeam, says, “Jen? Everything okay? Who’s Kylie?”

You grab the last shot in the line in front of Smartypants and slam it back. Bitter, sharp, it shocks you back into yourself.

“Old friend,” you finally manage. “Long story.”

Nancy drags her thumb in swirly patterns over your chest. “But we’re okay?”

“Hell yeah, we’re okay.”

She lives in a high rise a few streets away from the bar. You don’t have the money for a cab and she left her phone at home so you can’t get a Lyft, so you stumble back in each other’s arms. You catch her when she almost veers into the street and she shushes you gently with a mouth that tastes like strawberry chapstick when you laugh too loud. Just barely, just barely can you keep your hands out of each others’ clothes as you ride the elevator up to the tenth floor, then she drags you, giggling and kissing the whole way, down the hallway and to her apartment.

She drops her keys three times, and it’s only then that you realize just how shitfaced you both are.

The door is barely closed behind you when she slams her back against the wall and pulls you in by your jacket. Holy  _shit_ , she’s strong. You haven’t been handled like this in ages, and yes, this,  _this_  is exactly what you need right now.

Just don’t think about how you’ll feel tomorrow.

She grabs your left hand and shoves it down the front of her jeans, but they’re tight against her stomach and you can’t move and oh god the way she kisses you is fucking  _phenomenal_ , tongue and teeth and hands fisted tight in your hair in a way Kylie was always afraid to --

 _No_. Don’t think about that right now. Don’t think about him right now.

You slide your hand out of her pants and she half whines, half mewls in protest, pushing her chest tight against yours. But you shuck your jackets off and drop them on the floor, make quick work of the button and zipper and your hand is back in her pants in moments and she sighs, thick and pleased and heavy into your mouth. Maybe that’s why your head feels like it’s full of static, because your lungs are full of her instead of oxygen.

It strikes you like lightning:  _you don’t remember her name_. You barely remember yours. Even as she sinks her teeth into your neck and slides her hands up your shirt, you think _, I can’t do this, I can’t do this._

“Wait --“ You try to pull away, take your hand back. Your breath hitches when she bites your neck again, and it’s through a drawn out moan you have to force the words, “Wait, wait, wait.”

She pauses. Takes a step back. Slides her hands from your bare sides down to your waist.

“Jen?”

Oh, yeah, that’s your name, isn’t it? Maybe she’s not as drunk as you.

“We uh. We should stop,” you stammer. “This is a bad idea. Even if we don’t regret it in the, in the morning, anything you do with me when I’m this fucked up is going to be disappointing at best.” It’s a shitty excuse, but hopefully a believable one.

She pouts and takes a step closer, bumping her hips against yours. She runs her fingers through your hair and you can’t help but lean into it.

“But you’re  _so_  pretty, Jen,” she sighs. She continues to pet your hair, like you’re some kind of big cat, and you might be, because it’s almost enough to convince you to change your mind.

She kisses you.

For a moment, you kiss back.

Then you jerk away, hands on her shoulders, pushing her at arms’ length.

“I’m sorry,” you slur. “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have come over. I’ll leave.” She sighs heavily and looks at you with disappointed understanding on her face. Does she remember the abrupt change that fell over you and your friends when Funshine mentioned Kylie?

“You don’t have to leave. The couch is comfy. I don’t want you out alone this late when you’re so wasted. Someone could mug you.”

She cups your cheek in her hand and you turn into it, letting her run her thumb over your lower lip. You want to kiss it. You do, you really do, so much.

But you’ll just disappoint her, and even though she’s a nameless woman who brought you home from a bar, she deserves better than that.

And worse, the whole time, you’d be comparing her to Kylie.

Before you have to make the decision, do you kiss her thumb or don’t you? she drops her hand and points toward a plush black couch with a throw blanket spread over one side.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a real blanket,” she says. She pauses, takes your hand, hooks your hair behind your ear and says, “You sure, Jen?”

You swallow, thick, and nod. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles. The disappointment is still there, but now it’s mostly tired. She rubs her thumb along your cheekbone and says, “Don’t be. People change their minds sometimes. It happens.”

You lean into her hand as she talks, and finally she pulls her hand away and nudges you toward the couch.

“Lie down on your side. You can barely stand up straight. I’ll get that pillow and blanket.”

You collapse onto the couch, so, so tired so suddenly, and it’s so soft, and the blanket is too, and you wrap yourself in it and lie on your side like she told you to.

Soon she returns and drops the pillow and blanket on your shoulder.

“Here you go,” she says. She turns away and you close your eyes.

“Oh, and I have a cat, so if you hear a small animal zooming around in a few hours, it’s just him.”

“Okay. Thanks,” you think you say, but you’re so tired, and your tongue is so heavy, and you’ve got the spins even though you’re lying down, so it might not come out right.

It feels like you don’t sleep, but you must, because even though you keep blinking because you can’t keep your eyes closed, one time, when you open them, there’s light streaming in through the window. A black cat sits on the windowsill, washing his face. Must be the one… Natalie? It  _was_  Natalie, right? You kept fucking it up last night, though you don’t think you did it to her face, at least.

For a couple minutes, you just lie there, wrapped up in the warm fleece blanket, the crochet throw draped over your pillow because it’s just so soft. But finally you kick your legs off the couch and push yourself up with trembling arms. Even that slight movement brings a wave of dizziness and nausea and a headache that feels like icepicks behind your eyes. You groan and rub your face.

You’ve got to get out of here. You can’t face Natalie after what happened last night. God, what were you thinking, going home with someone you just met while you’re actively trying to get better so Kylie will take you back? Sure, it wouldn’t be cheating because he’s not your boyfriend anymore, but even so, it still  _feels_  that way.

You scratch a little at your bare arms, unsure whether the grit that comes out underneath your nails is real or just in your head.

You stand, fold the blankets and put everything in a neat pile. Your movements are slow and careful so you don’t throw up all over her things.

Even the sound of creaking hardwood under your feet as you walk around collecting your things is too loud. But eventually you get your jacket and shoes on, slowly but surely, and you stand at the door a moment, examining the locks, trying to figure out how to lock it behind you without taking a key.

The locks clicking in and out of place stab through your head like gunshots. But it looks like the bottom lock can lock from the inside and stay that way after you leave.

So you do.

You still only have a dollar, and not even any change, so you can’t even get a cup of coffee. You stuff your hands in your pockets and shuffle down the street. Thankfully, whatever time it is, it’s not time for people to get moving for work yet.

Eventually you end up at a random Red Line stop, and Angie and Ronan don’t live that far off from one of the stops, so you slog down the stairs and fumble your wallet to tap your card against the censor.

_Insufficient funds._

What!?

You try the one Smartypants gave you.

_Insufficient funds._

Shit. When did you run out? Was it just automatically reading the other one?

And you have no money to reload.

Awesome. Looks like you’re walking home with a hangover while the sun rises just high enough to stab you in the eyes. And you can’t even follow the train line back because in this area it’s all underground.

The Loop. If you can get to the Loop you can figure it out.

So you pick a direction and walk, and hope you can find the elevated track to lead you.

Every step shoots another shock of pain up your neck and into your head, makes your stomach turn. At least you aren’t shaking anymore. God, you  _never_  drink like that. Usually it’s one or two drinks at most, if even that.

 _But we were celebrating!_  Funshine’s voice is clear in your head, and maybe that’s true, but Christ, right now it’s more like punishment.

Finally you see the elevated line up ahead. It doesn’t matter which one it is, they all lead to the same place. If you can get to the library, you can get back to Ronan’s and Angie’s. You’ve made the walk plenty of times when they both had to go out and they didn’t want you there alone. It’s a bigass circle, so you turn right, because it’s just as good as turning left at this point.

A loud banging abruptly begins from somewhere up ahead and around the corner, amplified by the closed in space. You groan and rub your forehead, about to turn around and try the other direction, but then you realize: it’s not banging, it’s  _drumming_.

And you’d know that drumline on an upturned bucket  _anywhere_.

Oh God. It’s Kylie. It’s Kylie!

Your hair is unbrushed and dark circles hang under your eyes, but what else is new. At least now your clothes are clean, and you are, too. Relatively. You showered two days ago and haven’t done anything sweaty since.

Your heartbeat pounds so fast it churns your stomach into swimming nausea.

As much as you want to, you don’t run. You have to be able to form coherent sentences or he’ll just leave. Again.

But you do speedwalk. When you get to the corner, you pause, pressing your back against a building there, hands flat on the cold brick. One deep breath. Two. Three.

And you push yourself up and turn the corner.

Your breath catches and your throat almost closes up. You could cry, if you weren’t too overwhelmed to remember how.

Kylie’s at the end of the block with his bucket and drumsticks. A little tip jar sits beside him. His jacket is kind of dirty and his jeans have holes worn in the knees where they never did before. The soles of his shoes are covered in mud.

He hasn’t noticed you. He won’t until you approach him. That’s how he is with his drumming, with his music. He sinks into it and he has to be forcibly pulled back out.

One step. Another. One foot, then the other, one two, one two, and before you know it, you’re only a few steps away. He still hasn’t seen you.

Or he’s ignoring you. The thought pangs sharp in your chest.

“Kylie?” you finally whisper. He doesn’t look up. His drumming is probably too loud.

“Kylie?” A little louder this time. Still no response. You squint at the side of his head, and realize his ears aren’t in. So you circle around to his front, and when he looks up from his bucket, he starts so hard he drops his sticks.

“Hi,” you sign weakly, limp hand, limp wrist.

“Jen?” Kylie signs back, drumsticks forgotten by his feet. “What --“ He pauses, pushes his hands to the side to wipe the conversation clean. “What are you doing here?”

You thumb over your shoulder, as if you have any idea what’s in that direction. “Crashing on a couch in the area,” you offer.

Kylie narrows his eyes in thought and tilts his head. “I thought your friends lived in the suburbs?”

You shrug. Want to stuff your hands in your pockets, but can’t. “They couldn’t take me,” you sign.

Kylie nods. “Living with your cousins?”

You shake your head. “No, they…” You pause, the sign hanging in the air. Swallow hard. You wipe your slate, too. “They left the country and didn’t tell me. Everyone’s in Japan now. I’m the only one left.”

A long, long pause. “You look like shit,” Kylie finally signs, because there’s nothing else to say.

“Rough night.” You pause, unsure if you should continue. After a few moments, you do. “Relapse. Forty-six days sober and I fucked it up last night. It was just drinking but. You know. NA wants you to quit everything.”

Kylie’s sour frown fades and his eyes go wide. “You’ve been going to NA?”

You nod. “And therapy. And I’m working on getting a psych. And I found full time work! I start next week. But how are you?” Another pause. “I miss you so much, Kylie --”

“Don’t.” The sign is forceful but his face is pained, like you’ve just stabbed him in the stomach. “Don’t do this. Not here. Not now.”

You drop your hands, arms limp at your sides. Both of you stand there in silence, looking at everything but each other. Finally you lift your hands again and Kylie turns back toward you.

“Will you at least email me? Mine’s the same. I tried to get in contact so I could apologize for everything I put you through but my phone got shut off and you don’t have a facebook or twitter or anything, and I couldn’t get an email to go through --”

“That’s because I didn’t want to talk to you, Jen.”

He doesn’t use your name sign this time. He fingerspells it.

Like he’s erased you.

“Kylie --” and you  _do_  use his name sign -- “Kylie, please. I know I’ve fucked up so bad, and I was selfish, and I didn’t realize how much it was hurting you. And I deserved to have you kick me out. But I’m trying to get better. If I could stay sober forty-six days without meds I can do it again. Longer. Forever. Please, Kylie, I lo --“

“No.” The sign is sharp, hard, final. “Jen, I’ve been going through a lot of shit this past month, and I don’t have the energy for this right now. I’ll.” He pauses, sighs heavily and runs his fingers over his beanie.

“I’ll email you, okay? But for now I need you to leave.”

You deflate, like ice melting into a puddle. You stuff your hands in your pockets. You nod.

You turn away, but then have one more thought.

“I live here now,” you sign. “Well, I guess. I’m couch surfing here. So if we bump into each other, it was an accident, all right? I’m not following you or anything. I know I’m fucked up but even I know that’s not okay.”

Kylie smiles a small, half smile at you, almost fond, and it’s almost like old times, when he’d say  _I know_  or  _I love you_ , but it fades and he just nods and goes back to banging out beats on his bucket.

You turn away again, and manage to only look back once, halfway to the corner. It’s a fucking miracle you get across the street before you start to cry.

By the time you finally, finally get back to Angie’s and Ronan’s, your head is pounding and your feet are aching and your eyes are puffy and burning and you need to eat but kind of want to throw up, too, and you finally realize how gross you got last night -- the bar was packed, and it was  _hot_  inside -- and even though it’s probably about thirty degrees, you’re still sweating inside your jacket with the exertion of walking so far. But somehow you manage it, and you drag yourself to the elevator, and you wring your hands in the ends of your scarf.  _Angie’s_  scarf, that she let you borrow, Angie who has been so good to you, Angie who only ever had one rule and last night you broke it.

Your feet drag you to Angie and Ronan’s door, and you knock quietly, as if that will somehow start making up for what you did last night.

The handle turns. The door opens.

You don’t know what you expect, but it’s not to have Angie pull you into the tightest hug you’ve ever had, burying her nose in your hair, covered with dried sweat, and tugging you inside as she murmurs, “Oh thank god, oh thank god.”

It takes a moment, but you hug her back and collapse against her, her warm arms and soft flannel sleep shirt.

“Angie? Is that --”

You scrunch your eyes closed when Ronan stops so abruptly. Oh god. He’s going to hate you. He helped you so much and you repaid him like this? Is this what you did to Kylie, too? Is this why he didn’t want to talk to you?

But then Ronan steps behind you to close the door and wraps his arms around you, gripping onto Angie’s sleeves.

“Jen, thank god,” he whispers.

After a few moments, they both pull away. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly too cold even though you’re still wearing your jacket. You start to look down at your feet, but then Angie grabs your cheeks and tilts your head up again.

“Jen, are you okay? We were so worried when you didn’t come back yesterday, we were so scared you got mugged or stabbed or kidnapped or --”

“Kidnapped?” It comes out with just the barest of smiles, but even so, it feels so good to know people still care about you.

Angie huffs a breath out of her nose and says, “Oh, hush.” She pulls you into another hug.

“Let me get you some breakfast,” she says. “But don’t think you’re not going to tell us what happened, okay?”

Before you can answer, she disappears into the kitchen. You turn around to look at Ronan. His face is sad even though he’s smiling, and a shock of cold shoots through your body. He knows.

He nods his head toward the table. “Come sit with me. Let’s talk.”

You kick off your shoes and shuffle across the carpeted floor behind him. He pulls a chair out, leaves it for you, sits in the one next to it and turns it so you’ll be facing each other.

You sit down slowly, carefully. He doesn’t look mad, but it still feels like a trap.

Ronan puts an elbow on the table and leans his weight on it.

“So,” he says.

And then, nothing.

You clear your throat.

“So,” you croak.

“Angie told me about the rule she set down when you first came around. Can’t be in the apartment with drugs, can’t be in the apartment high. Is that why you didn’t come home last night?”

You bite your lip and cast your eyes down.

“I went out drinking with some friends. Got… really fucking wasted. Went home with some woman I’d just met but backed out at the last second, but she was… she was really kind and let me crash on the couch. I didn’t have any money on my bus card when I tried to catch the Red Line this morning so I had to walk and --”

Your voice gets shakier and shakier as you speak, and the closer you get to the part where you saw Kylie, the more your eyes water. When you stop so abruptly with a sob, Ronan leans forward and puts his hand on your arm.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and shake your head.

“Relapses happen, Jen. That’s part of recovery. You’ve just got to pick yourself up and keep moving. And, I mean, if it had to be something, at least it wasn’t heroin again, you know?”

You don’t try to explain you only did heroin that one time, when you tried to kill yourself. He probably wouldn’t believe you anyway. You sniffle and scrub at your face, then take in a deep, shaky breath.

“I saw Kylie,” you murmur.

Something crashes in the kitchen, but Ronan doesn’t look away from you.

“Your ex?” he asks gently.

You nod.

“Where? What happened?”

“I was trying to find my way to the Loop so I could follow it back to the library and get back from there,” you explain, words rushing out far too clumsy and fast. “When we first met, he used to come downtown, go out to Wrigley, sometimes just chill in the subway with his bucket and his drumsticks, to earn a couple extra bucks. I met him when I was passing by Wrigley Field, actually. He was. He was drumming then, too. Trying to raise money for new batteries for his ears, since his work insurance wouldn’t cover it.”

If Ronan doesn’t understand what you mean by that, he doesn’t ask.

“Did you talk to him?” Ronan asks gently.

“A little,” you whisper. “He said he’d email me, but only if I left him alone.”

Ronan’s face turns even sadder and he pulls you into a hug. You don’t fight it. You bury your nose in his shoulder and hug back.

At least you don’t cry again.

Soon after, Angie comes bustling out of the kitchen and puts a plate full of scrambled eggs and a glass of juice on the table in front of you. She presses a hand between your shoulders when you start to pull away from Ronan, and she says, “Take your time, sweetie. It’s not going anywhere.”

And now you finally realize: neither are they.


	19. Chapter 19

The next day is Sunday, and though Ronan always has to work both days of the weekend, being in retail, Angie takes you out shopping for some work acceptable clothes and some inserts for your boots so you don’t hurt your feet too much. She keeps piling things in the cart, which she’s left you to push, and you assume most of it is for Ronan for whatever reason, until you both get back to the apartment and she unwraps a fold-in storage cube and drops all the neatly folded shirts and jeans inside. She pushes it up beside the couch, your unofficial bedroom, and you look up at her and say, almost breathlessly,

“Wait, what? I thought these were for Ronan?”

Angie smiles and draws you into a quick hug.

“You need more than one work shirt, silly, and you have to have things to wear on days off and laundry day, too.”

She and Ronan are working very hard to make you cry this weekend.

 

It surprises you, but you settle into work pretty easily. It’s been so long since you’ve had a job, had any kind of purpose, and this is so much more important than the meaningless busywork you always did in retail. You’re taking care of other people’s pets, and that _matters_.

Casey even agrees to give you Thursdays off, for appointments. Sure, you’ll have to reschedule both your therapy and psych visits, but both of them are in on Thursdays, so you don’t have to bother with asking for days off all the time.

Of course, that does mean you have to push them both off. Psych for one week, therapy for two. Your insurance won’t cover two visits on the same day for some bullshit reason. Because fuck you, you guess.

Casey’s Pawsome Doggie Daycare doesn’t have a ton of customers at first, but it has its regular dogs, and you get to know them and their humans. Ahmed, with Noodle, the nervous little Labrodoodle, who prefers to go around to the park and those little paths, away from the sounds of traffic. Ami, with Peter (weird name for a dog, but whatever), the golden retriever too smart for his own good, who wants to explore every nook and cranny of the city, who Casey insists is switched to a harness over a collar so he can’t escape while you’re out walking. Luke, with Lofty, the great big Rottweiler who, thankfully, is very well trained, because she could easily get out of your grip if she really wanted to.

But the one you really bond with is Christina’s dog, Rosie, the friendly rescue pitbull, who always has a little felt flower attached to her collar, a different color every day. You hear other dog owners whispering to Casey about her sometimes, about how Rosie shouldn’t be here, around other dogs, even though she’s one of the best socialized dogs you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. She’s so sweet and gentle and friendly, and she’s good with the puppies at playtime, and she’s never so much as barked at a stranger on her walks.

Casey, to her credit, says they are welcome to take their dogs elsewhere, then.

Rosie is the highest point of your day. She comes in at 8:45, bright and early, because Christina works in an office nearby. When she rescued Rosie, Christina was in school and had more time to play, but being gone in long chunks left Rosie lonely, or so Christina says. You honestly don’t care. You’re just glad you get to walk Rosie every day.

You wrap her leash around your hand -- never, ever a choke chain; Casey doesn’t allow them in the building and insists the owner buy a regular collar and leash -- and keep her heeled at your side. It would be better if you could let her roam ahead a foot or two, to sniff at things and meet people, but people _freak out_ when they see this sweetheart of a pitbull, just because she’s a pitbull. So instead to take her to the nearby dog park and walk her over to your little corner, where you wrestle and play fetch the ball and let her run around off the leash, as long as she stays in your area.

But it slowly gets busier and busier and Rosie’s walk time is running out, so you call her back and she bounds up to you, licking your face when you kneel down to meet her. A quick hug, a full body scratch, and a pet behind the ears, and then you leash her again and start heading back.

The days go in and out like this.

One thing that remains the same? Kylie doesn’t email you.

But he will. He _will_ , right? He’d have known you would leave without that promise if he wanted you to. Wouldn’t he?

The Thursday of your first psych appointment comes, and you’re on the train when your game is interrupted by a new email alert. You curl into it and pull your phone closer, push the game to the side so you can open it. It’s probably just another spam email. Someone must have sold your email address recently, because you’ve been getting so many of them. But you can’t help but jump to attention anyway.

It’s from Kylie.

You swallow hard, fingers shaking as you open the message.

 

_Jen--_

_I’m sorry I didn’t email you sooner. I might still be mad, but I know how you get about these things, and it was obvious when I saw you that I’m not the only one having a tough time. I’ve been so busy._

_I lost the apartment. I couldn’t pay for it without you and couldn’t find a roommate who would be willing to take the couch, and as you know, Mom and Dad and most of my other family moved to Indiana, so._

_I live in my van. Luckily I could fit the mattress in the back. At least that’s paid off, right?_

_I’m sorry, Jen. This would have happened regardless of whether you stayed, so I want you to know I don’t blame you for my situation. I’m the one who kicked you out, anyway._

_And I’m sorry about that. I assumed Funshine and Smarty would take you. I wish I could have kept our phones on so I could get a text from you or something. I just couldn’t afford it. Mine still doesn’t have service, either. I’m hooked into a Dunkin Donuts’s wifi right now._

_I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say. I miss you, too, and I admit I wasn’t perfect. I should have been more upfront with my feelings, so maybe we could have worked out something that would have been good for both of us. I still don’t have insurance, so no therapy for me. But I’m glad you’ve been able to get help. I really am._

_I don’t know if I’m ready to see you face to face yet, but I do want to talk._

_How have you been? Where are you staying? How far into your treatment are you and how is it going? Well, I hope?_

_I do love you Jen. I do. And I’m so, so sorry._

_Kylie._

 

It’s hard focusing on your message back while the train bumps and sways and screeches. The bright light coming through the windows almost blinds you, and you can barely see your screen.

The tears don’t help.

You fumble back a reply as best you can:

 

_Dear Kylie,_

_This is going to be a quick message because I’m on the train and it’s hard to focus, but I wanted to reply right away. I miss you so, so much. I still love you, and I still think of you all the time._

_I’ve been in NA about two months. I’ve only had one therapy session, and I’m on my way to see my psychiatrist for the first time. We’ll see if she gives me meds. I should be able to get an antidepressant, I hope? But with my history, who knows about the Adderall. I’m just drinking a fuckton of coffee in the meantime. The caffeine isn’t as good, but at least it helps some. Wish me luck, yeah?_

_Do you want me to talk to Angie and Ronan (the people who took me in) and see if there’s space for you?_

_I got a job! A real one! A good one! It’s full time at a small doggie daycare! If you’re still working I bet we could easily get another_

 

You pause and swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes closed a moment, deep breath through your nose. You have to phrase this right or you could ruin everything again. You open your eyes and your gaze darts back to Kylie’s email again, then down to your composition.

 

_apartment, and I would be okay with taking the couch/floor/other place, if we can only afford a studio or one bedroom. No more drugs. I can’t promise I won’t have a relapse, but I can promise I’m really, really trying to stay sober, and I’m not using drugs regularly anymore, and even though sometimes I still itch, I really do want to keep it that way._

_Maybe, when you’re ready, we can meet for coffee? I’ll even buy. I don’t know if you’re staying downtown, but I’ll be in the Boystown area the rest of the afternoon. If you want to see me so soon._

_The only thing is, I won’t stop seeing Funshine and Smarty. I understand now how I was acting with them hurt you, and I’m willing to be less touchy-feely with them. But they’re my best friends, and have been over ten years. I’m willing to work with you to come up with something that will be good for both of us, though._

_I love you._

_Jen_

 

You pause, hesitate, almost send it but don’t. Then the automated announcement for your stop echoes through the train, so you send it without letting yourself think about it anymore, pocket your phone, and head down the stairs.

You don’t get coffee today. Didn’t even drink any at breakfast. You’ll get something heavy duty after your appointment, but you want your psych to see you completely unmedicated, so they know what you’re like.

Just like last time, you pick a number and sign in, and just like last time, there’s hardly anyone here because it’s so early, because just like last time, your appointment is at 1:00. The person at the desk gives you a little form, questions with things to circle, about depression and anxiety and suicidal ideations. You play up the depression a little, because just because this moment in time is okay doesn’t mean you’re not just going to crash again later. Anxiety? Only in cars, really, right? Other than the Kylie getting back to you. But that’s not a mental thing, anyone would be anxious about that. Wouldn’t they?

But you don’t have time to think about it, because someone calls you back.

“Jen?”

It’s such a relief that here you can go by what you want to. Sure, it’s nothing like deadnaming would be for Angie or Funshine or Smarty or whoever, but it feels more like you than Atreyu ever did. Maybe one day, when you have enough money, you’ll even get your name legally changed.

The woman is maybe four or five years older than you, if that. Fresh out of school, maybe? Would that make this easier or harder?

She leads you back to her office, much smaller than Tracey’s, with her diplomas on the wall, a desk with a computer, and a bookshelf. No knick knacks, no fidget toys, no plants. She sits down at the desk and smiles, gesturing to the other two chairs in the room. You sit.

“My name’s Suzanne,” she says. She folds her hands together on the desk. “My pronouns are she/her. What about you?”

“I’m Jen,” you say, “and, uh, he/him. I know I look kinda girly but I’m just gender nonconforming, I guess. I’m cis though.”

She nods and leans a little closer to you. You try to make eye contact, you do, but it’s so hard. Another soft smile, and she says, “So, Jen, what brings you in?”

You fiddle with the ends of your scarf a moment. Bite your lip. Dig your nails into your arm, even though the jacket is so thick you can barely feel it.

“Um, well.” You shift in the seat, again, again. Foot taps against the carpeted floor. “A few things. I’ve had ADHD since I was a kid and when I lost my insurance a number of years back I lost my meds, too. And Tracey thinks I have depression.”

“What do _you_ think about that?” Suzanne asks.

“I mean.” You pause. There’s no window to look out of, and you hate it. It feels like an interrogation room. “She’s probably right, I guess?”

“What kind of symptoms do you have?”

You start to speak. Your voice catches, you clear your throat, start again.

“Um. I feel worn down a lot, even when I haven’t done anything. Trouble putting thoughts together, and, uh, focusing. Even though I always feel so tired I still have like, all this excess energy at the same time?”

Are you even making sense? You can’t tell based on Suzanne’s expression.

“And, I get nervous about dumb little things a lot. And I have a _really_ hard time sleeping decently.”

“Do any of these things interfere with your daily life?” she asks.

“I try not to let it,” you say. “But it’s hard.”

She nods and types something out at her keyboard.

“Tracey told me about your history with drug abuse,” she finally says. But it’s gentle. It’s not a challenge. Even so, you rush to say,

“I can give you the information to my pediatrician’s office and you can get my files. I’ll take all the tests again. I’m --”

Suzanne smiles. “Jen, Jen, it’s okay. I’m not attacking you. I just need to know if your drug use could have had any effects on your current state.”

“Oh.” You press your knees together, wrap your arms around your stomach, look down at your feet. “Okay,” you murmur. “I, uh, I don’t think so?”

“I believe you when you say you were diagnosed with ADHD,” Suzanne says, “but I need to have that on file before I can prescribe you meds. Do you know the fax and phone numbers of the doctors’ office you went to?”

“I can find it.” You pull your phone out of your pocket, and it only takes a few minutes of wrong turns and misspellings to get there. You list off the name, address, phone and fax numbers. But, “It looks like my old doctor isn’t there anymore,” you mumble. “They should still have my files, though?”

“That should be enough.” She types out a note and turns back to you. “I should have those files by your next appointment, so we can get moving on this. I can tell you’re struggling, Jen, and I’m sorry. You just have to wait a little longer.”

You nod and hug yourself tighter.

“In the meantime, I want to start you on an antidepressant. It sounds like you don’t have typical depression, but agitated depression, which comes with the emptiness and sadness but also anxiety and trouble sleeping. We’ll start with ten milligrams of Lexapro for a week, then bump it up to twenty, and we’ll see if that helps your sleep any.”

You nod. Suzanne leans forward again and says, “Now, Jen. Listen to me, because this is very serious. I want to help you treat your problems, but you have to work with me, too, okay?”

“O… kay?” you mumble.

“That means no street drugs. No marijuana. Alcohol kept to a minimum, because it can interfere with the way the medication works.”

Your brow shoots up and your eyes go wide. “Can I still drink coffee?”

Suzanne laughs gently and nods her head. “Just try to switch to decaf after 1:00, to see if it helps you sleep any easier. And I want to be clear about something, Jen.”

Your smile fades.

“If you give me cause to believe you’re using again, I will have you drug tested. If you test positive, I won’t call the police, but I _will_ do whatever Tracey and I think necessary to get you treated, including hospitalization. Okay?”

A silent nod.

“Obviously you’ll test positive for amphetamines, because of the Adderall,” she says. “So that won’t count against you. But you’re on the honors system not to do any illegal amphetamines, okay?”

You nod again. “I’ve been going to NA,” you offer.

Suzanne perks up and smiles brightly. “Wonderful! And how have you found it so far?”

You smile nervously back, rub at your arm. “Okay, I guess. I was thinking about maybe getting a sponsor.”

She smiles and her shoulders loosen, her brow un-knits. “I think that would be a great idea,” she says.

Your phone goes off in your pocket. It’s an email, you can tell by the tone. Your hand immediately rests over your jacket, where the phone lies under the fabric. You swallow hard. Suzanne’s eyes dart to your hand, back to your face, but she says nothing about it.

“Do you want me to send your scripts to the pharmacy here, or somewhere else?” is all she asks. “Unfortunately our pharmacy only has brand name ADHD medications and not generic, so for those to be covered I’d have to send them out somewhere else. But what about today?”

“Uh,” you mumble. “The one near where I’m staying, I guess?”

“And where is that?”

You fumble your phone out of your pocket. There’s an email from Kylie. You have to force yourself not to ignore Suzanne and open it, and you minimize it for now, so you can look up the cross-streets to the Walgreens near Angie and Ronan’s apartment. The entire time, your eyes keep darting back to the little envelope icon at the top of your screen.

She sends you out shortly after. You hook back into the office wifi and pull up the message.

 

_Jen--_

_That you want to stay friends with Funshine and Smarty is fine, and I was being unfair to you because I was jealous of them. I can admit that, at least. I’m… not comfortable with the cuddling stuff, still, but, that’s my issue to deal with, not yours. But it was wrong of me to not want to you see them at all. You’ve known them a decade. We’ve barely known each other two years, and we hadn’t even been together one._

_The battery in my left ear ran out, so I can only hear out of my right. I’m saving them for work days and going without the rest of the time, to make the remaining battery last as long as possible._

_I could… I would be okay with meeting in a public place. Thank you for offering to pay. I’ve got a good spot for my van; I found free parking downtown, if you can believe it! So I’m going to take the train. Which line should I take? Where should I stop?_

_If I don’t hear back from you today, I’ll assume something came up with your doctor, and we can try again another day._

_Kylie._

 

_Dear Kylie;_

_Take the Red Line to Sheridan. There’s a coffee shop connected to the stop at the bottom of the stairs, I’ll wait in there for you._

_Thank you. Thank you for being willing to give me another chance._

_Love, Jen_

 

You sigh, heavy and thick, and when it comes out your shoulders finally lighten and loosen. You clutch your phone to your chest and breathe.

Angie and Ronan expect you to be gone most of the afternoon, so you don’t message them. Not yet. Just in case it all goes to shit again.

Kylie doesn’t write back, and you hope it’s because he’s on his way and lost signal. But Kylie isn’t cruel, and he wouldn’t jerk you around. If he didn’t want to see you, he’d say so.

So you cross the street and cross the street again, and you wait in line, and you get your soy cappuccino -- with six shots, please -- and douse it with raw sugar.

There are no tables available, but the two couches are empty, so you sit on the one facing the door to the train stop.

And you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait.

You don’t know where Kylie was when he emailed you. There are dozens of Dunkin Donuts downtown. Maybe he took the brown line and has to transfer. Maybe he had to walk a couple blocks to get to his stop. Maybe he had to take a bus first. But it feels like it takes forever, and your coffee cools, and you sink deeper and deeper into the couch, and your throat closes up, and you grip your paper cup so tight it dents under your thumb.

And you wait.

Every time the door opens, your head jerks up. Every time, it’s not Kylie.

Until it is.

Your heart could burst, you’re so happy to see him.

His eyes dart around the coffee shop. Fall on you for just a moment. He smiles, briefly, and continues to look around. Probably to see where everything and everyone is.

He glances over at the counter, hesitates. Turns back toward the couch and approaches you. He stops in front of you but doesn’t sit.

“Hey,” he signs.

“Hey.”

“Sorry about --“ He pauses, sighs, pushes the signs to the side with his hands and starts again. “I’m sorry about what I did with your name last time I saw you. I didn’t give you your name sign so I had no right to try to take it away. I’m sorry. Jen.” He does use your name sign this time. The one Mouse gave you in middle school.

You smile tentatively and pat the empty cushion beside you. Kylie smiles back and sits, and you both turn, tucking up one leg, mirror image of each other, so you can look at one another while you sign. You put your coffee down.

“I feel like it’s been longer than it has,” Kylie signs.

You nod, scratch the back of your neck. Glance away. Glance back. His hand is on his knee, and it would be so easy, so, so easy to reach for him and take it and lean your forehead against his, if he’d let you.

Instead you gently bump your knee up against his. He smiles. You smile a little bigger.

“It does,” you finally sign. “A lot has happened in these past two months.”

“Yeah.”

A long, long pause.

“So,” Kylie says, and then he makes the first move, leaning forward slightly to rest his left hand on your knee and sign with just his right.

“So,” you mirror. Your fingers crawl closer, just barely touching his. He doesn’t pull away.

“So, why don’t you tell me about it?” Kylie asks.

You huff a breath through your nose and sign back, “God, where to even start?”

“Well, what about with who Angie and Ronan are? I don’t think I’ve ever met them.”

“You haven’t.”

“So,” Kylie signs again. “Start with that.”

So you do.

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Kylie belongs to @ohsugarfoot (on tumblr) and Ronan belongs to @avalonjoan (also tumblr)!
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing wife, Sugar, for helping me through when I got stuck, and to all my friends on tumblr who have been so supportive of this as a WIP. I hope it doesn't disappoint! <3


End file.
